Hearts Don't Break Around Here
by darthsydious
Summary: mychakk on tumblr gave me a prompt: unplanned pregnancy, Sherlock doesn't know it's his. Molly tries to keep it from him. Sherlolly, Warstan, Mythea.
1. Chapter 1

Molly stared at the pregnancy tests laid out on her counter. Anthea, the darling girl, had run to the shops to fetch them, said nothing, and even waited while Molly took each one.

"So…" Anthea swiped through her phone, still answering texts from Mycroft so he wouldn't suspect anything was wrong. "Blood test next?"

"Yes," Molly nodded, collected the tests and threw them into the trash. She was still reeling. Pregnancy tests could be wrong sometimes, but four in a row? Unlikely. She had a good feeling that they were correct, but a blood test would be undeniable proof. Somehow, and she figured nobody would fault her, she felt the need to insist on a definitive answer, and not from some pee-on-a-stick thing one got out of a corner shop.

Grabbing her purse, she turned to Anthea. "Come along?"

"Try and stop me," she smiled comfortingly at the pathologist. "Shall I call up Mary as well?"

"Would you?" Molly asked, beginning to feel tears prick the corners of her eyes. At this moment, she didn't want to be alone, she needed her two closest friends by her side.

Mary was known for being able to keep a secret, she was the sort who could be intolerably smug about what she knew, but she always knew to button her lip. She met them at the hospital, baby Rosie in the carrier. Bouncing on her heels, Mary smiling gently at Molly as she stepped up onto the curb.

"Ready then?"

"No," Molly sniffed.

"What's wrong?" Mary asked, putting an arm around her. "Is it because you don't want it?"

"No…no of course I do…it's a shock and-" she wiped her eyes, glancing around. "Let's go in, I'll tell you about it once we're downstairs."

While the blood-test ran, Molly told them about her one-night stand a month or two ago.

"Who was the chap? Someone you knew?" Mary asked.

"Oh lawks, was it Greg?" Anthea asked. "Not that he's bad, he's lovely but I don't know, I thought you two were more chums than…y'know…friends in the nighttime."

"It wasn't Greg," Molly shook her head. She heaved a sigh, tipping her head back. She considered not telling them at all, but Mary would figure it out, or worse yet conduct her own blood-test, if she ever got a suspicion as to who. "It was Sherlock."

Mary guffawed, then covered her mouth, forcing her laughter down, rolling her lips to try and smother her grin. "Sorry, I am so sorry," she managed to choke out. "I'm not laughing at you, I promise Molly, I was just- I'm sorry…Sherlock?!"

"Were you both completely pissed?" Anthea wanted to know.

"No, and thanks for suggesting that he'd only want me if he was drunk," Molly answered sourly.

"No, that's not what I meant," Anthea said quickly. "But you know Sherlock, he doesn't make a move…well…ever, he's too nervous. He'd sooner flash the press than ruin what he's got with you!"

"We weren't drunk _exactly_ ," Molly answered finally. "Just tipsy enough. I don't think he remembers it at all, really, or if he does, he's not said a word to me about it. He's gone on as if everything is fine...which...I rather think is out of his capacity to do so if he knew about this."

"Exactly," Mary said. "So it's likely he doesn't remember, because, knowing him, he'd have talked to you by now, or shut himself off completely."

"Right," Anthea nodded.

The machine slowed, alerting them all that it was finally finished processing.

"You know whatever happens, Molls, we're here for you, John and I, and Anthea," Mary said as Molly collected the print-out.

"It's not for certain, yet," Anthea offered, trying to play devil's advocate. "But yes, we're here no matter what."

"Well?" Mary asked. For once, Molly's expression was unreadable.

"Well?" Molly parroted. "Well I suppose I'd better register for some baby things." Her smile was bittersweet, and she covered her mouth. "So I did it out of order," she gave a choked laugh, wiping her eyes. "It'll be it and me, and that's fine."The paper crinkled noisily in her hands as she began to shake, crying more than laughing. She was happy, after all, she'd always wanted to be a mum. But she wanted what went with it too, a husband, a house. "I'm happy," she sobbed, trying to reassure Anthea and Mary who gathered her up, resting their heads against her, gently shushing her. "I promise I am I'm just-" she shook her head, returning their embraces. "It's going to be fine."

"Yes it will," Mary hugged her, careful not to crush Rosie between them. She thumbed away Molly's tears. "You just tell us what you need, we'll help."

"I need you both to promise not to tell Sherlock," Molly said, more firmly.

"What?" Anthea started

"Molly, no-"

"I mean it," she cut them off. "I mean it, if you're my friends, you'll let me handle this my way. Maybe it's wrong, but…but I need to just process this myself first. If I tell him, if he finds out it's his, he'll run off, or he'll- I don't know…" she trailed off, worrying her bottom lip. "Just promise me you won't tell him it's his."

Mary and Anthea exchanged looks, clearly not in agreement with Molly's choice. Finally, though, Anthea nodded.

"I won't," she relented. "Neither will Mary, will you?"

"Not if that's what you really want," Mary agreed. "But I will say that you shouldn't keep it from him forever," she squeezed Molly's hand. "This is the sort of thing he'd figure out, maybe not right away, in fact, knowing him, probably not until your wee one is in primary school. You know how dense he is sometimes."

Molly sniffled, laughing, and Mary shared her smile. "Promise me you'll tell him though, it doesn't have to be now, but someday soon."

"I promise," the pathologist nodded.

"Preferably before the baby starts school," Mary added with a grin. "Come on, let's get going before the boys come barging in here and our cover is blown."


	2. Game Plan

Sherlock blinked. Surely, he had misheard. He _must_ have. He hadn't intended to eaves-drop, his ears just happened to be sensitive when it came to the subject of Molly. He'd been resting on the couch when Mary had come into 221b, and greeted them both. Sherlock had gone on pretending to be asleep merely to save himself from having to answer (he hadn't the time for chit-chat at the moment as he'd been far too busy organizing his mind palace). Mary went directly to her husband who sat at the kitchen table, pouring over the crossword puzzle. She'd thrown her bag down, demanded he guess what her news was, then blurted it out before John had a chance to.

Apparently, Molly was pregnant. John was flabbergasted.

"It's true," Mary insisted to John. "She took a blood-test today, she's only a month along, but she says she feels okay."

"'Okay'?" John repeated, not believing her.

"Well, okay as can be expected, it is a surprise after all."

"But she's going to keep it?" John asked.

"She wants to," Mary replied with a nod. "She's always wanted to be a mum, and I think she'll be a good one."

"She will," John agreed. "Who's the father?"

"Ehm…" Mary chewed on her bottom lip. She knew very well that Sherlock was only pretending to ignore them. She flicked a glance over toward the 'slumbering' detective.

John frowned. _"Wot?"_

Again, Mary glanced towards Sherlock, this time nodding her head. Slowly, realization dawned on her husband. Mary gave him a look, and he stilled.

"Well…" John cleared his throat, trying to wrap his head around _that_ new piece of information, and too, to keep silent about it. "There's no shame in being a single parent."

"Certainly not, and we'll help her, you and I, and Anthea already promised to lend a hand where she could,"

"Which means Mycroft will be giving his financial support," John added with a grin.

"What does Mycroft have to do with Molly's baby?" Sherlock sprang to his feet, indignant.

"Oh, you are awake," Mary smiled pleasantly at the ruffled-looking consulting detective. "Tea, Sherlock?"

"Mary Watson, you tell me what my brother has to do with Molly Hooper's unborn child."

"Nothing, as of yet," Mary answered, filling the kettle. "But knowing him, and his appreciation for her efforts regarding, well…everything, I'd imagine he'll have a rather heavy hand in footing the baby's nursery bill, to say nothing of its schooling."

"Why should he do all that?" Sherlock asked.

Mary turned, hands on her hips. "Because he's her friend?"

"Well…" Sherlock shifted, he stared at the floor, looking quite sullen. "I'm her friend."

"So you are," John agreed, grinning cheekily at Mary. "And as her friend…how are you going to help Molly?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, then shut it. He straightened. "Well. I can find the man who got her pregnant."

Mary clamped her mouth shut, trying very hard to smother her words.

"What on earth good would that do?" John asked, trying to appear quite serious. "Perhaps she doesn't want the man anywhere near her, or her baby."

"Yes," Mary answered, sounding quite strained. She cleared her throat, still grinning. "Maybe she's better off without him."

"What if he's got some disease or something that she ought to know about?" Sherlock offered.

"Well she'd have figured out if she'd caught something by now," John answered drily.

"You know what I mean!" Sherlock replied waspishly. "What if he's got something that will be passed on to the baby? What if his family has a history of heart disease or something, and it skips a generation and the child is born needing surgery or-"

"Woah, calm down," Mary held up her hands. "If it means all that much to you, certainly, go and make inquiries. Maybe it will put to rest some of Molly's concerns."

"Why?" Sherlock looked alarmed. "What's she worried for? Has he tried to contact her? Was he a brute?" he grew quite serious then, drawing himself to his full height. "Mary. Did he rape her?"

Mary snorted, shaking her head. "No, no Sherlock, it was…from what I understand, quite a mutual night of…erm…festivities."

"Oh." Sherlock looked at his feet, then the wall. "Well…she'll…want him to be found…won't she?"

"She didn't say anything to me," Mary shrugged. "In fact, she sounded as if she wanted to leave it as was. Just a one-night stand is all. From what I understand, she couldn't remember much of it."

"Good," Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. He crossed the room, taking his coat down from the hook by the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To Molly's of course, she needs someone in her hour of need." With that he hurried out the door, thumping down the stairs.

"'Hour of need' – she's pregnant, not dying!" John shouted after him. He waited until he heard the downstairs doors open then close before whirling back around to Mary. "Did I understand you correctly Mary Watson, are you telling me-" she was already nodding. "Are you telling me, do you swear this is not a joke, that that man," he pointed towards the door. "-that idiot pudding head of a consulting detective slept with Molly Hooper, got her pregnant, and _doesn't remember it?_ "

Mary burst out laughing. "I swear by the hairs of my chinny-chin-chin, Molly Hooper is carrying Sherlock's spawn, and he doesn't remember a bit of it!" she broke into fits of giggles while John turned a full circle in the kitchen, as if that somehow would help him wrap his head around the fact.

"But she does know he's the father?" John asked, facing Mary again.

"Well, she said she didn't remember, not at first, but it's been coming back to her. She put two and two together earlier today while she was pissing on her third pregnancy test." Mary said. "Molly said that they weren't that drunk, but she must've been a _bit_ doozy."

"Hmm, and it doesn't take much of anything for Sherlock to start slurring his feelings." John agreed. "So, what happens now? We let him go and try and figure out who got Molly pregnant?"

"Well, as Molly won't let any of us tell Sherlock who the father is, I'd say we let him go on and try, chances are, the pub won't remember Molly and Sherlock from any of the other thousands of people that's gone in and out a month ago."

"True," John nodded. "But it is Sherlock we're talking of."

"Exactly," Mary nodded. "He's an excellent detective, but this is just the sort of thing he won't remember. He's got to figure it out on his own. It'll take him a while, mind, because he's got to piece together the night he doesn't remember. Meanwhile, he'll be helping Molly get sorted in this new stage in her life."

"Sherlock in a Lamaze class…" John shut his eyes, trying to picture it. "I don't know if the world is ready for that yet."

"No, but I am," Mary smiled.

"Sherlock as a parent…I don't think he's ready for that."

"He is," she promised. "He doesn't know that yet either."


	3. He Fits In His Own Shoes

Just as Mary promised, everyone stood beside her. Most surprising of all, was Sherlock. He'd been the first outside of Anthea and Mary to congratulate her. Indeed, he'd come banging up to her flat (as he'd done before), only this time he apologized to her for causing such a racket.

"I didn't hurt the baby did I?" he blurted out as soon as she'd opened the door.

Molly blinked, mouth slack then she quickly shook her head. She shouldn't be surprised that he knew. For just a moment, she hoped Mary had told him everything, but of course Mary wouldn't, not if she'd expressly asked Mary keep her secret.

"No, Sherlock, you didn't hurt the baby, just startled Toby." The cat hissed from atop the bookcase, clearly ruffled.

"Hm." Sherlock narrowed his gaze at Molly, studying her. For the first time in a long while, she appeared uncomfortable under his studious gaze. She tugged at the hem of her sweater, unable to bring herself to look directly at him.

"Stop that." Her voice was soft, pleading.

He blinked, straightening. "I'm…sorry…I didn't realize-"

"I know," she nodded, turning away. _You can do this, Hooper. Chin up buttercup and muscle through!_ Quoting her father had always worked before, but somehow it made it worse, and as she turned to the kitchen she began to cry.

"Molly," Sherlock rounded the kitchen island, this time coming to stand directly before her. "Molly what is it? Are you in pain? What's wrong?"

"Oh everything, nothing," she managed to choke out between tears.

Surprisingly, she felt herself gathered up in Sherlock's arms, and he gently guided her to lean against him.

"It's going to be all right," he promised, gently swaying back and forth. He kissed her cheek with a little more tenderness than he'd initially meant, though she didn't seem to mind. "I'm not going to leave, I'll find out who the father is-"

"No!" She struggled in his arms, trying to move away from him. "No! No, Sherlock,"

"What's wrong?" he frowned. "Don't you-"

"I know who the father is…it'd…it'd spoil everything. He's…he wouldn't want to know, trust me," she smiled through her tears. "Please, Sherlock, please do this for me, don't try and find out."

Sherlock frowned at her pleading, but slowly nodded. "Very well," he put on a smile then, shrugging. "If you like, I shan't. Just as well. You don't need his sort anyway!" he pressed a kiss to her forehead, thumbing away her tears. "Go sit down, you shouldn't be standing anyway. You'll get swollen ankles. I'll fix your tea."

He missed her bittersweet smile as he turned away. She watched him a moment longer, considering lecturing him that swollen ankles wouldn't be a side-affect until much later. Instead she decided to leave it be as he attended the kettle and tray before sitting down on the couch.

"I'll bring a proper basket around tomorrow," he declared from the kitchen.

"A what?" Molly asked, confused.

"A basket," he repeated. "People bring them when there's good news…a baby _is_ good news, isn't it?"

Molly looked at Sherlock, seeing in him a tenderness she'd only seen in him briefly, when she caught him snuggling with Rosie. She took a breath, realizing having a baby, having _his_ baby, even if he didn't know it, was a _grand_ thing! She made a decision, albeit silently, that from now on, she'd be keeping her head up, focusing on the good things.

"It is," she said at last, and smiled with meaning.

"Good!" he set the tray down with a small clatter, he threw himself onto the overstuffed chair opposite the couch. "You needn't worry, I'll see to everything, would you prefer a doula or to give birth in the hospital? Oh! Or a water birth? At home water birth?"

"What?" she barely suppressed her laughter at his eagerness.

"Well, these are things you ought to know sooner rather than later, if you want an at-home birth we'll have to find a suitable midwife. And a proper air conditioning system for your flat, being pregnant in the summer will do you no favors whatsoever, especially in our city, knowing the humidity."

"I- I hadn't given that much thought," Molly confessed. Of course she'd need air-conditioning. By the time her due-date rolled around it would be mid-August and stiflingly hot. She'd never put it in simply because she was so often at work, and by the time she reached home, she didn't mind sleeping with a cool rag or a bucket of ice in front of a fan. The idea of being nine months pregnant and melting in the London humidity made her re-think what she'd need as far as remodeling her flat.

"Have you thought about which room the nursery will be? The spare room is rather sparse, but it could be set up nicely, could knock the window out and make it bigger, you do own this flat, so it wouldn't be any trouble. Or there is the finished attic. I know you wanted it as a craft room, but it's much brighter there, it would no trouble at all to get it fixed up properly, or would that be too far from the baby for you?"

Molly shut her eyes a moment, somewhat reeling from Sherlock's stream of suggestions.

"Well…uh...the spare room is nearer, so…that could be the nursery, and the attic could be the new spare room," Molly said after a moment. "Can't have my flat without a spare room for the World's Only Consulting Detective."

"If you recall I never used your spare room, needed the space."

"So you crammed into my bed," Molly answered, laughingly teasing.

"I don't recall you complaining," he quipped, rather smug.

Just as soon as the smile in her eyes had appeared it was gone, and Sherlock noticed. She made no comment, lost in thought.

"Molly?" he ventured.

"No, you're quite right," she smiled, brighter, trying to move the conversation along. "I always insist on my fair share of my things, but I'll always share them with you." With that she got to her feet, kissing his cheek quickly as she passed him. "I'll do an at-home birth, I think."

"You will?" he looked mildly alarmed.

She turned, hearing the worry in his voice. "Why not? You just suggested it."

"Yes I know, but…well, what if something goes wrong or-"

"Well I'll have a midwife there, they're trained for that sort of thing. But I don't want any crack-pot who doesn't use scalpels or surgical scissors. I don't need some madwoman telling me a tear heals faster than a cut."

Sherlock nodded, not quite understanding, but knowing Molly knew what she was talking about. "You'll be attending Lamaze classes, I presume."

Molly nodded, and Sherlock noted the flush of anticipation creeping up in her cheeks. "Are you volunteering to come with me?"

"If you would permit," he said, then paused. "Or would you rather have Mary-"

"No I-I'd like for you to come along," Molly interrupted. "You're my friend too, after all."

His smile was suddenly bittersweet, and there was a quiet sorrow in his eyes as he regarded her. "Yes, yes we are good friends now, aren't we?" Somewhere, in the back of his mind there was a quiet, niggling thought that they could've been so much more. But that wasn't what Molly wanted, was it? He didn't dare hold onto such a hope, not so openly. He would not ruin the good, cherished friendship between himself and Molly. They were so happy now, so at ease in each other's company. There was lovely give-and-take in their friendship, a kind of comfortable happiness Sherlock could not put his finger on. Yes, he could be happy just as he was with Molly. He was resolved to be so. He would be anything for her, so long as she would allow him.


	4. The Sweetest Girl We Know

Mycroft blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Molly Hooper is pregnant," Sherlock repeated a second time. "This is the first sonogram."

Mycroft looked at the blurry black and white image. He was no expert in the medicinal field of reading sonograms, but he could make out a shape…of sorts.

"I see…well it appears…intact…"

"It is perfect," Sherlock declared. "Molly must have a very easy pregnancy. I should imagine Stamford will give her all necessary time off, but I should like her to be guaranteed maternity leave of fifty-two weeks, and at least a month prior to the birth. Obviously, she oughtn't be on her feet. I'd rather she be convinced for an earlier leave, two or three months even before she's due, but she'd rather work as long as she can."

"I'm sorry," Mycroft shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Is there something I have missed? Are we related to this unborn child? Because you're behaving very much as if we were. Not that I am disappointed, on the contrary, Doctor Hooper is a marvelous candidate, both as a mother figure and a wife."

"No!" Sherlock frowned, shocked his brother would ever mention such a thing. Not that Sherlock had not…pretended…but that was entirely different, and very much a secret.

Mycroft set the papers and sonogram down with a flop on his desk, a little perturbed. "Then _why_ am I being called upon to secure Doctor Hooper's maternity leave?"

"Because you owe her," Sherlock answered. "She's saved me countless times, ergo saving London." He paused, bouncing on his heels a moment. "Molly Hooper is very important, and she is my friend. She has not had a very good year…a rather bad run of years, really. Here is something she has wanted for a very long time now. I should like for her to have a safe…happy pregnancy. It is the least I-" he paused, then corrected himself: "-the least _we_ can do."

"Humph," Mycroft looked at the sonogram again. He looked at his brother, studying him. He recalled a night some months ago, Anthea had sent him several video files of Sherlock and Molly stumbling back to 221b Baker Street, quite drunk, celebrating a successful case.

 _Ah-hah_

"Very well, brother-mine," Mycroft said, carefully hiding the glee that was welling up in his chest (which was a surprise, to be honest). "I shall see to all necessary arrangements, provided Doctor Hooper approves of course."

"Excellent!" Sherlock picked up the sonogram. "I'll send you a copy," he said and dashed off, leaving a very perplexed Mycroft behind.

Well, well! Sherlock was to be a father, and the stupid clot had _no bloody idea!_

Mycroft rolled his eyes. Only his brother could sleep with the woman he loved, impregnate her, and have no flipping idea. It was obvious, of course, that Sherlock loved Molly Hooper, the same as Molly loved Sherlock. Of course, she'd never made it any secret about her feelings for his little brother. He wondered if Molly knew who the father was. More than likely she had a rough idea, as she had not gone out since that particular night some months ago with Sherlock. She must have put two-and-two together. Besides, women were more intuitive. Sherlock was not only a light-weight, he often avoided memories and situations that made him uncomfortable. It would be perfectly believable that he would just have blocked out his night with Molly out of either embarrassment, fear of her rejection, or being so blind drunk that he simply didn't remember. Well! This simply would not do. Mycroft would have to see about jogging his brother's memory, albeit slowly. No sense in frightening him off to God knows where.

A plan already formulating in his head, Mycroft shut his computer and stood, buttoning his jacket before pressing the intercom button. "Anthea,"

"Sir?"

"Anything pressing today?"

"Nothing that I can't handle by myself," she replied.

He paused, chewing his bottom lip as he thought. "Very well, send my car around. Sort out the remaining meetings to those who can be trusted, you may as well take off as well."

She didn't respond, so Mycroft wasn't too surprised when he heard his office door open and shut.

"Are you sick?" she asked.

"No," he frowned. "Do I look it?"

"You never delegate meetings but for emergencies."

"I've a more pressing engagement that requires my immediate attention."

"Your brother looked rather healthy when he left," Anthea replied.

"So he did," Mycroft nodded, still putting away his paperwork.

Anthea narrowed her gaze, studying him carefully. Mycroft pretended he didn't notice, also hoping she wouldn't figure out-

"Are you going to tell him the baby is his?"

He looked up at her, alarmed. "Now how on earth did you deduce that? I haven't said one bloody thing!"

"I was with Molly, the day she took her pregnancy test," Anthea replied. Mycroft rolled his eyes. Of course she would know before the rest of them.

"Anyone else know?"

"Mary, probably John by now. That's it though. Molly doesn't want Sherlock to know that it's his."

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. "Afraid it'll send him packing?"

"Yes," she crossed her arms over her chest. "So? Where are you off to?"

"To see my future sister in-law, inquire of my future niece or nephew, and see what security features need to be updated."

"I'll do that," Anthea offered. "I've got the time now."

"Thank you," he took his briefcase, shutting off the lamp on his desk. "I…should like every precaution taken, when it comes to her safety and the child's," he said slowly. "I should imagine her working closely with Sherlock has not made her many friends."

"No," Anthea shook her head. "And careful as your brother was, I'm sure she's not entirely unknown to his enemies."

"Hmm."

Anthea regretted her statement, but only for a moment. If anything, unlikely as it was, were to happen to Molly, and it could have been prevented, Mycroft would have blamed himself. As much as he protested to be a cold politician who did not love anyone or anything (present company excluded of course), Anthea knew he was very fond of Molly Hooper. He'd been so ever since that Christmas evening she'd come in to perform the post-mortem on the Adler body double.

"You know if I wasn't so sure you loved me, I'd say you're sweet on her," Anthea said suddenly, and he looked up, alarmed, then relaxed, seeing her gentle, teasing smile. "I know how much you care for her, it's all right, it'll be our secret."

"She is…a very good woman," Mycroft said. He set his briefcase down, and stepped over to her, slipping his arms around her waist. He rested his forehead against hers with a sigh, allowing himself the intimacy for just a moment. "I think she will make an acceptable sister in-law, don't you?" his voice was brighter when he spoke, and Anthea knew he'd settled on a plan of action.

She smiled up at him, eyes twinkling with some unspoken mischief. "We'll make her a Holmes yet."

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then ducked his head, lips meeting hers. "I'm off to dare and do then. Shall I pick up dinner?"

"Yes, anything for me, I'll find a bottle of wine for us as well."

"Good. See you later."

With that he gathered his coat and case and slipped out of the office. There was a good deal to think about. Obviously, Sherlock must figure out the child's parentage himself, and he would, eventually. Molly would not be able to keep this a secret forever, especially not that Sherlock wanted such a heavy hand in assisting her. She did not seem loath to accept Sherlock's help, so that was promising at least.

"We are all fools in love," Mycroft sighed under his breath. Placing his case in the car, he directed the driver to drop him at Molly Hooper's flat and wait for him there. "While you wait, if you've the time, see about putting together a list of potential plain-clothes guards for Doctor Hooper."

"Sir," George was Mycroft's personal chauffer as well as Mycroft's personal body-guard. He was an excellent agent, and knew the best officers in the business as it were. Molly Hooper did not need to know how many guards were watching her, or where or how. He did not want her daily routine upset by clumsy riflemen. Plainclothes guards would be the ideal route.

"Would you say eight to be excessive?"

George glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. "If you need as many as twelve, sir," he answered carefully.

Mycroft considered his words. "I think we'll settle for five, for the time being."

"Very good, sir."

The drive was pleasant, and traffic moved along, for once without Mycroft having to interfere. He was not in any particular rush (though he did find it somewhat surprising that his level of excitement seemed to rise the nearer they got to Molly's flat). Well, why shouldn't he be excited? It was not a foreign feeling…entirely. He'd been excited when he and Anthea quietly eloped in Italy. Perhaps it was the prospect of a new baby, and one that was related to him. It was a very well kept, carefully guarded secret that he liked babies. Well, babies that pertained to him. He did not want to care for just any child. For instance, he would be pleased if Anthea were to have a baby (that is not to say they were raring to try for starting a family just yet, but he would not be disappointed, if it happened by chance). He'd raised Sherlock, practically, and there was very little in the way of child-rearing that Mycroft did not know of.

The car came to a stop outside of Molly's flat, George climbed out and opened the door.

"I'll see to everything sir," George said.

"Thank you. I don't know how long I shall be, if it gets to be near dinner time, fetch the usual order from Le Gavroche, then call my mobile."

"Very good."

Mycroft headed up through the double doors and into the elevator. Molly had wisely invested her savings in a very fine flat in the center of London. The neighborhood was very good, it was just a block from Hyde Park. If she and Sherlock ever got their act together, they could very well live here in her flat, and Baker Street could be his place of operations. No sense in opening their family home to the public. He'd see about finding a proper decorator for the nursery as well. Obviously, Molly's spare room would need to be redone. It was far too dark in there. Babies needed fresh air and sunlight.

Knocking on her door with the handle of his umbrella, he waited for her to answer. She always took a moment longer to answer the door when he stopped in, usually to put the kettle on first, knowing if ever he popped in, it was because they needed to chat. Usually their talks consisted of Sherlock's dealings. He had not had to stop by Molly's in a very long time now. He was surprised to say he had missed her company. She had a macabre sense of humor, but shared his dry wit and enthusiasm for BBC period dramas and film noirs. They'd spent many a happy afternoon whiling away hours over sandwiches and tea, whinging about the latest episode of Downton Abbey or some other drama. She was amusing as she was kind. Molly Hooper was very much the sister Mycroft wished he had.

The tumblers clicked, rattling as she unlocked them, opening the door. She took one look at him, understood why he was there, and promptly burst into tears.


	5. How She Holds Me When the Lights Go Low

"Are you here to send me away?" Molly sniffled, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief Mycroft had produced from his breast-pocket.

He looked rather alarmed, and somewhat insulted. "Good heavens, whatever for?"

"I don't know…because Sherlock's work is important, and I'm a distraction? The baby will be a distraction,"

"Certainly of the best kind, my dear. While distracting, yes, you are a stable distraction, you're a constant in his life. It was quite difficult, having him so far away from you during his pretending to be dead." Mycroft rolled his eyes as he at last seated himself across from her. "I'd rather have him not blame me for keeping you away."

"Then why are you here?" Molly couldn't help but ask.

"To offer my support of course." Was his answer. "Your flat, while perfectly situated, is in need of some updating, as well as a nursery to furnish. I'm not about to have my niece or nephew have anything but the safest that I can procure, be it a crib, a car seat or a stroller."

"That _I_ can procure," Molly corrected. "I don't want you buying the moon and stars, Mycroft, it is a matter of pride, you know, to provide for my baby."

"And you shall, all it's life," Mycroft replied. "I should like to give my assistance when necessary, starting with your security."

"Security?" Molly thought for a moment. "Oh no, no, Mycroft don't you dare. I won't have us living as if we were some bloody Royal with guards at the bell all day-"

"Just a few plainclothes guards," Mycroft held up a hand, seeing she was about to protest again. "Please, my dear, for my own sanity, allow me to insist on this. You are important to my brother, this child, even if he doesn't know it's his, is important to him. Ergo…you matter a good deal to me as well."

Molly looked at the elder Holmes, who was suddenly the picture of humility and honesty. It wasn't so much a surprise that Mycroft could bare his soul to someone (she knew he was very much in possession of a heart) but she didn't expect him to admit his private feelings to her. She felt quite touched.

"Well…yes I, I suppose if it means that much to you. I'm sure you'll do whatever feels necessary, without being excessive."

"Naturally, you shan't even know they're about, unless there is something the matter," he promised. "If you're ever unsure of your safety, they'll always be nearby. I have a new mobile for you, it's the same as your current one, but it will have an alert on the home screen, all you'll have to do is push the button and someone will come. I'll have Anthea drop it off tomorrow."

"Thank you," she murmured, feeling her heart drop a little at his sudden serious manner. Mycroft was always serious of course, but security was something he excelled at, and for him to feel the need to have her guarded twenty-four-seven made her worry. "Is...is there any actual danger?" she asked quietly.

He fiddled with the handle of his umbrella. "There's always danger, my dear, time and unforeseen circumstances and all that, but…Sherlock has made enemies in his past. You are, now more than ever, clearly linked with him, and it may, I do say _may_ , make you a target to some. You're not in definite danger, Sherlock would have had me squirrel you off to some bunker far away from here if that were the case. Is danger imminent? No, The security measures are precautions, if for nothing else than someone to rush you to hospital if need be."

"Can some of them be women?" Molly asked, feeling her fears somewhat abated. "It's just that what if…well what if my water breaks, or I need help getting out of the tub or something…I think I'd rather have a woman help me than a man, not that they wouldn't be discreet-"

"Of course there will be some," Mycroft promised. "You'll have a rotation of five for the time being. It may increase as…" he glanced at her, trying to phrase his words delicately.

"As I increase in size?" she asked with a grin, and began to laugh, covering her mouth. "I'm sorry, Mycroft," she managed to gasp out, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. "It's just a funny picture, me waddling down the street and a dozen of your men and women surrounding me in a big circle!"

Mycroft quirked a grin, allowing himself a genuinely amused chuckle. It was good to see her laughing.

At last she calmed herself, wiping her eyes. She got to her feet, still holding his handkerchief. "Will you stay for tea? I've got some lovely chocolates I've been saving for the next time you come."

"I have the day free," he answered. "Shall I queue up something to watch?"

"Yes, anything," she called. She was bringing the good tea cups down, straining to reach for the box of chocolates behind the teas when Mycroft reached for them himself, setting them on the counter.

"The real question, Molly," he said, using her first name at last. "Is what we are going to do about Sherlock?"

She looked at the teacup in her hands, thumbs tracing the gold filigree rim. "I…thought I'd tell him eventually."

"When?" he leaned against the counter, hands in his pockets as he studied her. "This is something he must know, something he deserves to know-"

"Who's to say he deserves that?" Molly snapped, setting the cup down and turning away. "He doesn't even remember that night, why should he get a piece of my happiness when-" she cut off the rest of her sentence, biting her lip. "I'm scared, Mycroft," her voice was soft and hungry. Molly was not often afraid, even in things she balked at, she always muscled under and pushed through.

"You love him, my dear, what is there to be afraid of?"

"That I could lose him, that I'm just a fool, that he doesn't love me, not in that way," she shook her head. "Mycroft if he knew…if he knew that he forgot something like this, he'd be devastated, he'd hate himself, he might run away-"

"He might not," Mycroft countered. "He might be upset for a bit, but I think he's come far enough along that he'd probably try and make amends."

"I don't want him to be with me out of pity," she shook her head. "If we could just…go on as we are…I can live with this, I can…" her insistence sounded hollow.

"You know I shan't say a word about it," Mycroft said at last. "If that's what you wish." There was a long pause as he regarded her. "But I think you should."

She turned with a start, surprised at his fervor, but he was already heading back to the living room.

' _Everyone is entitled to their opinion'_ thought Molly. _'It just so happens that everyone collectively has the wrong opinion…'_

In the back of her mind, there was a flicker of doubt in her choice, one that told her everyone was right, that she should just tell Sherlock, but she quickly pushed that thought deep down. Not now. Not yet. She wasn't ready.

 **Three Months Later**

"Five months, you're progressing beautifully, any concerns?"

"Not really, as long as you don't see anything to worry for," Molly rolled down her shirt. The midwife, Adeela, shook her head, smiling.

Sherlock had put up a fuss when Molly insisted on having a midwife, so much so that Molly nearly snapped that he wasn't the father, except that he was, even if he didn't know. Still, she felt she had a right to choose however she wanted to give birth, and she opted for a midwife. Adeela Chandra was a highly recommended midwife, Anthea had found her and made all the necessary arrangements.

"It's partly my comfort with your progression, but more importantly yours," Adeela reminded her. "Your little one is going to be quite tall I think."

"She's beginning to move," Molly said. "That's all normal though, isn't it?"

"Oh yes, but mummy feels baby move before anybody else, you'll be able to show off her kicks and punches in a few more weeks, for now it's just you and her, cherish it, before people start grabbing your tummy."

"Oh I hope not," Molly pulled a face. She'd thus-far escaped people touching her, she wasn't quite sure what would happen if someone reached for her without her consent. Probably one of Mycroft's people would tackle them to the ground.

Still, the day she'd felt her baby move for the first time, Molly suddenly became conscious of just how fragile life was. What was there between her baby and the outside world? Molly was a mere vessel for her child, caring and feeding and protecting it, until she was to bring her into the world. Good grief, everything was a danger now! Molly had rung Sherlock up in a panic, asking how many guards there were. He'd come banging into her flat, worried there was danger. Once she'd calmed him down and assured him that nothing was actually wrong, he called Mycroft, requesting Molly's security be increased.

"Don't fret too much," Adeela soothed, bringing Molly back to the present. "I know everything outside seems like a threat, it's just you to protect baby, but she's quite strong too. You both are healthy, and everything is indicating a good, normal pregnancy."

"Humph, you don't know the father," Molly snorted.

"Is he in the picture?" Adeela asked, curious, as Molly had not exactly mentioned the father since she'd started her visits.

"Um…sort of."

Adeela merely smiled, deciding not to press the subject. "Never mind, she's got a good strong mother to look after her, that's what counts."

A quiet knock on the door made them both turn. "All done?" Sherlock called from the other side.

"Yes we are, you can come in now Mr. Holmes," Adeela called, winking at Molly.

The bedroom door opened and Sherlock stood there, trying to appear perfectly calm.

"Well? Is she normal?"

"You mean is she healthy? Yes, both are, and doing very well, as if you didn't know that already, listening at the door." Adeela grinned at him as she closed up her bag. "You know you could always sit in when I come, Molly ought to have someone play doula, and you'd be very good at it, I can tell."

"She's right, Sherlock," Molly relented. "You're the only one who's been here regularly, and I'd like someone to be up on all my symptoms if anything should happen."

Sherlock was doing his best to conceal his glee. To Adeela he looked quite calm, but the unmistakable shine in his eyes, Molly could spot that a mile away.

"Of course I should like to, yes if you'll have me," he agreed, barely able to keep himself from beaming.

Adeela nodded then, that matter settled. She felt much better, knowing Molly had someone she could completely trust, aside from herself of course. Every mother-to-be ought to have someone who could be at her side as much as possible. A mother needed support from family and friends. Sherlock Holmes had been at every single one of her appointments, so Adeela didn't have any trouble at all suggesting him. If she didn't know any better, she'd say he was behaving as a father did, asking questions, doing research, quizzing her on birthing facts and the like. Finished putting away her things, Adeela smiled to them both. "Have a good day Molly, I'll see you in three weeks."

"Yes, of course, thank you," Molly answered.

"And remember to call me, I may be on holiday, but I'm always a phone-call away for my patients." A final wave, after which she checked that her headscarf was neat, Adeela left, smiling goodbye to Sherlock as she passed him.

"Bad form, that," Sherlock said once she was gone. "Leaving while you're still pregnant."

"For goodness sake, everyone deserves a holiday," Molly laughed. "Besides, she's only got me and two other girls right now, and we're all at good, safe stages. I'm glad she's going, besides if I need her she's left me several numbers for other midwives she trusts, and I can always call her if it's an absolute emergency."

Sherlock took the edge of the bed, fidgeting. He glanced at her belly, then at his shoes. "Do you think I'd be able to feel her heartbeat yet?" he asked quietly, shy.

"Probably not," Molly smiled gently. "You might hear it though. Come on, help me up, and fetch the pinard from the bathroom."

Sherlock had not heard the baby's heartbeat yet. He was eager to, especially since Molly had told him she'd woken up, able to feel the baby moving.

In the living room, Molly made herself comfortable, and indicated where Sherlock was to place the pinard horn. He knelt on the floor, ear pressed to the narrow end of the instrument.

"Careful, don't dig it into me," Molly laughed, making him bob up and down.

He waited until she'd settled before trying again. After a moment, he heard it, a gentle _thump-thump, thump-thump_

"She's all right, isn't she?" he asked worriedly. "It's not too slow?"

"No," Molly laughed. "She's perfectly fine. Heart-rate is normal, movement is normal, well, for me anyway. Every mum is different."

"Did you send Mycroft the last sonogram?" he asked, crawling up onto the couch, he rested his head in her lap, his way of demanding his head to be scratched.

"You're such a cat," she sighed, but did as he wanted, soothing her fingers through his hair (a task she'd gladly perform any time he liked, if she was honest). "And yes, I did. I'm rather sure he got it before I sent it,"

"Hm."

"Case got you down?" she asked, noting he'd shut his eyes.

"Hmmhm. Just need to think."

"You could've done that before, Adeela and I wouldn't have disturbed you."

"Don't be silly, if I was in my Mind Palace I'd miss your appointment. Now hush I'm thinking." He cracked an eye open, looking up at her. "Please."

"Since you said please," she relented, and sank further into the cushions. "I could do with a nap myself."

Molly wouldn't admit it yet, but these quiet moments were her favorites, the stillness in her flat with Sherlock. It was peaceful and pleasant, even if, while locked away in his mind-palace, Sherlock would hold her hand to his chest. He did so unconsciously, and Molly didn't like to disturb his train of thought, so she let him. The first time he'd done so, her heart hammered in her chest, indeed her ridiculous heart repeated the process the second and third time. Now, it was quite normal, and she took comfort in his gentle grasp. Now it was quite out of habit that when he laid in her lap, she'd rest her hand over his heart, tapping out rhythms to herself until she fell asleep.

Friends did that sort of thing, of course. Because that's all this was, just a friend supporting a friend.

Right?


	6. Love the Way That You Conquer Your Fear

"This is getting ridiculous," Mary huffed, hands on her hips.

Molly, now at eight months pregnant, sat on the sofa in her flat, feet in a basin of warm water. "What?"

"You and Sherlock, that's what!" Mary snapped. "Now either you two are going behind all our backs, or you're using him because you need the help!"

"I am not!" Molly gasped, horrified.

"Aren't you?" Mary asked. "Look, he brings you to your appointments, he runs to the shops for you, he brings you dinner when you don't feel like cooking, he's brought you flowers three times in the past four months-" she counted on her fingers, and Molly felt her face grow red with shame. She'd been resentful of Sherlock using her for favors, and deep down, she knew it wasn't quite right to let Sherlock help her so much, especially when there was no understanding at all between them.

"I don't ask him to do those things, he just does them-"

"You're still accepting the favors though," Mary countered. "Now once and for all, Molly Hooper, what is the point? Either you love him or you don't, you can't excuse that he might not be a good father, every single decision he's made has pointed in the opposite direction, matter of fact. He hasn't taken a case above a ten for the past two months, because he's worried he'll miss something important."

Molly looked at her belly, idly stroking circles. "I know…I guess…I guess I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. I can't believe he's-" she bit her lip. "No that's not true, I _can_ believe he's sincere, and I know he is. I just…I want him to figure it out. I know that's stupid and selfish, but something this big…how could he not see by now? How could he not remember?"

"Molly," Mary sighed heavily. "He's a brilliant detective, but he's not a mind-reader. He's trying his hardest to stay at arms-length from you, and it's not fair to keep him there, not if you share his feelings. If you don't then tell him so and let him sort himself out, and give him boundaries, so that he'll know where he stands."

"I don't want to give him boundaries, I want-" she spoke in such a rush and then trailed off softly. Mary turned to face her.

"If you don't want to keep him at arms-length, then tell him so." Mary suggested gently. "If you know that you want more with him, then tell him so."

The idea of either of those suggestions made Molly's stomach drop. She liked where she and Sherlock were in their relationship. Their friendship was beautiful, it was lovely, truly. He was, in truth, her best friend. Why did things have to change? But then, another part of her wanted things to progress as well. To confess her feelings to him frightened her, but to stay as they were felt wrong as well. Mary seemed to understand Molly's thought-process, and took her hand, squeezing gently.

"I know it's scary, it's the scariest thing in the world, opening yourself up to someone. The whole time you're wildly afraid you've misinterpreted their feelings, and yours, and if you're anything like me, you're questioning your own feelings too, wondering if you're wrong after all and you might not love them, that you've made a mistake. Forever is a long time to be with someone."

"Is that really how you felt, when you told John?"

"Oh yes," Mary nodded, smiling shyly (a rare moment). "You see he told me first, and I responded in kind. I was petrified that I'd just said it out of politeness, because I couldn't imagine telling him anything but 'I love you' in return. I realized after about a half hour of a silent panic attack, that I meant it, that my feelings were absolutely right. I think you'll feel the same. You'll see you're right for each other, and anybody else just won't do."

"So I tell him I love him, what then?" Molly asked.

"That's entirely up to you," Mary shrugged. "But Molly promise me you will tell him, this is too big to keep a secret. Please believe me, secrets shouldn't be kept from your loved ones."

 **Meanwhile, At Baker Street**

"You're ridiculous!" John threw up his hands, thoroughly annoyed.

"What?" Sherlock asked, incredulous.

"You've been sat there, for three hours, trying to come up with a way to propose to Molly, when you two aren't even together!"

Sherlock shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. "I think I'm fairly certain of our feelings for each other. We just…haven't quite got there yet."

"So your solution is to propose to her?"

"Well…what do you suggest?"

"Try something smaller, like, 'I love you Molly, would you like to go for dinner some time?'"

"Just like that?" Sherlock asked.

"Well…hopefully give her a chance to respond, but yeah, that's the gist of it. Generally people do go out to dinner before spouting their affections, but you and Molly have known each other for years, and you've always been a rebel." John turned back to his friend, having heard no response. He wasn't totally surprised to find Sherlock silent, clearly thoughtful. There were times when Sherlock was insightful about human emotions. Ever since the Eurus incident, he'd become increasingly perceptive.

"Like a day trip," he murmured to himself.

"Yeah, sure, that's a good idea," John agreed. "Somewhere you both like, preferably not a murder scene. Somewhere you know she's completely happy."

"Where did you propose to Mary?"

John was surprise. "You don't know?"

"No, I don't exactly pry into everything, you know, least not in your relationship."

"You did with every other one," John groused.

"They were clearly wrong for you," Sherlock sniffed with a wave of his hand.

"I proposed in the bedroom," John answered at last.

Sherlock smirked. "Ooo, saucy John."

"No, you idiot," John shook his head. "You know Mary's past, her life was constant chaos. We bought our house before we got married, and she'd commented off-hand how she'd never felt so safe and happy as she felt in that house. She was making the bed one morning, and…it worked out…" John shrugged. "The timing was right. I was going to propose the night you came back, even tried when we'd gotten home. Timing wasn't there, so I waited. Turns out dinner and dancing aren't always necessary for a proposal. All you need is time."

"So…"

"If the timing is right, after you've made your feelings clear, then yes," John answered before Sherlock could pose the question. "You'll never be one-hundred percent sure of the response either. Mary and I had just bought a house together and I was still fretting over the two-percent chance she'd say no."

"Hmm," Sherlock slouched low in his chair. He frowned at his laptop screen, then began typing.

"What are you looking for?" John asked.

"Do you think Molly would like a solitaire or a multiple stone setting?"

John shook his head, grinning. "I think she'd like a day-trip first." He peered over Sherlock's shoulder. "Don't get her one of those tacky thousand-chip rings."

"Hmm."

"What?"

"Mycroft just sent me that very text just a moment ago."

"Well, he's got good taste then. Go on," John reached over, clicking the window on the screen shut. "Google day trips. Maybe to the sea or something."

"Seaside?" Sherlock muttered, thinking again.

"Yeah. Nice day on a boardwalk, might be nice. Mary and Rosie and I can tag along if you want."

"Yes of course you must all come along. Separate cars, mind."

John rolled his eyes. "Don't worry, I'm sure Mary will have already thought of that."

 **Molly's flat**

"Sherlock wants to go to Brighton this Saturday!" Molly crowed, pushing herself up to her feet. "Oh I haven't been in ages!" Immediately she tapped out her response. "He says to invite you as well if you're here, which he knows you are."

"To Brighton?" Mary stepped into view, munching on a piece of toast. "Sounds lovely, doesn't it, Rosie?" she bounced the baby on her hip, who laughed, then opened her mouth for a bite of toast, which Mary obliged her with. "Tell him I want separate cars, just in case Rosie gets sun rash or is fussy. That way everyone won't have to leave early."

"Right,"

"Might be good time, too, to talk to him," Mary added.

"If you must know, I already thought of that," Molly replied smartly.

"Oh good, didn't want to have to lecture you again," Mary's smile was teasing, knowing her point was already proven, and Molly was not only already embarrassed to be told off, but also agitated at herself for allowing her to behave so poorly. "Chin up," she kissed her forehead. "It'll be all right. I'm sure Sherlock hasn't noticed anything. I'm sure he just wants a nice, relaxing outing for you."

"Yes, he's been telling me I need to take a day off. Might make this Saturday the start of my maternity leave."

"Having pains?" Mary looked concerned.

"No, no, but I can't work in the lab, or in the morgue, I'm just shuffling papers, really," Molly sighed. "None of the fun bits of work."

"Hmm. Well, a lovely day by the sea should be just the thing to cheer you up," Mary said. "That and finally having it out with Sherlock."

* * *

 _Hmm so things are moving along then, albeit slowly. But next chapter we can enjoy a lovely day by the seaside!_


	7. Oh We're In Love Aren't We

It was a beautiful day, made better by Mrs. Hudson slipping in a few extra treats into their picnic basket. They set off early, Sherlock toting the picnic basket, Rosie in John's arms, Mary helping Molly carry the blankets and beach umbrellas.

"Shall we follow you or-"

"Lead the way, John, don't worry if we aren't directly behind you," Sherlock waved his friend off once the basket was stowed in the backseat of the car.

"I know the way," Molly piped up.

"You're not driving in your condition," Sherlock ordered, and opened the door to the passenger side for her. Over Sherlock's shoulder, Mary waggled her eyebrows at Molly.

Sherlock did not mind driving, he only disliked doing so in London because it was such a hassle minding a car in the city.

"Where did you get this car, by the way?" Molly asked.

"Hm?" he glanced up from buckling his seatbelt.

"The car, where did you get it? I didn't even know they made these cars anymore."

"They don't. Mycroft likes old cars. He keeps two or three at his house in the country. He loaned me this one."

"Loaned or doesn't know you 'borrowed' it?" Molly asked with a grin, knowing Sherlock's usual way of 'borrowing' things.

"I'll have you know he gave the keys to me personally," Sherlock answered with a sniff.

"Well it was very nice of him."

Sherlock started the car and waited for traffic to clear before pulling out. Molly reached down between her knees and fished out her knitting from her tote bag.

"I told you to stow that in the boot."

"It's only an hour's drive, besides, I want to make some headway with this sweater. I'll never get this finished otherwise."

Sherlock decided then and there as they made their way to Brighton that he would gladly take many a drive through the country with Molly any given weekend. She sang along with the radio, did not get car-sick, and he appreciated her thinking ahead and packed a thermos of tea.

The day was lovely, Brighton, as it so often was, was a marvelous distraction from the business of London. Mary and John happily sunned themselves while Molly agreed to take Rosie down to the water's edge. The nervous mother-to-be feared letting go of the little girls' hand, lest the waves bring her out. Rosie had only just mastered walking, and Molly was afraid the waves might be too big.

"The tide isn't strong this time of day," Sherlock said, and Molly turned, surprised to see the Consulting Detective had changed into a pair of swim trunks. He'd stowed his coat in the car, and instead wore a loose fitted white linen button-down. "What?" he asked, noting her surprise.

"I never expected to see you in bathing trunks is all," Molly said, trying her hardest not to admit to herself that Sherlock, even in those aqua and orange printed shorts, looked like a bloody model. She, on the other hand, felt rather like a waddling tent. Shy of her rather protruding bump, Molly kept her cover-up on, despite Mary promising she looked like a knock-out in her bathing suit.

"Shall I help you?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to her dress, and she glanced down at herself.

"Oh! No, it's just a tie-on, I thought-"

"It'll be sopping wet if you keep it on," Sherlock warned. "I'll hold Rosie if you want to leave it with Mary.

As if on cue, Mary appeared. "You can't wade in that, here, I'll keep it dry for you!" with a wink only Molly saw, Mary helped the pathologist out of her wrap. "There! Oh Molly, I wish I looked as nice as you do pregnant," Mary sighed. "Doesn't she look marvelous, Sherlock?"

Molly blushed red, feeling Mary's words were only said out of politeness, and now Sherlock would feel obligated to say something nice, or-

"She does indeed."

With a start, she looked up, meeting Sherlock's gaze, for he was, indeed, gazing at her. There was surety in his tone, truth in his eyes.

"No I don't," Molly couldn't help but answer softly.

"You couldn't be lovelier if you tried," Sherlock countered, then turned. "Thank you, Mary, go and rest with John, we'll see to Rosie."

"Mind you keep her close to shore, nothing over her knees," Mary warned, and Sherlock promised they would not go far.

Rosie, having stood still while her father slathered her in sunblock, was impatient to get her feet wet. She tugged on Sherlock's hand, reaching with her other for Molly's.

Rosie between them, they set off down the shoreline, amused as Rosie shrieked with laughter as the water lapped at their toes.

"Swing! Swing!" Rosie begged.

"Oh I don't know about that," Molly teased, grinning up at Sherlock. He met her shining eyes and returned the smile. Rosie brought out a far gentler side in him than anyone thought possible. Sherlock had learned that the love for a child was terribly powerful. The implicit trust Rosie had for her godfather was overwhelming. He wanted to protect her innocence, her rose-colored view of the world ought to remain in-tact for as long as possible. "What do you say, Sherlock?"

Molly's voice broke through his thoughts and he grasped the child by the wrist.

"Hold on tight, one-two-three- awa-a-a-a-a-y!" Up they swung Rosie, who kicked her feet, squealing with delight. Up and down they swung her between them, letting her push off from the sand to kick her little feet higher and higher until Sherlock noticed Molly was out of breath.

"More!" Rosie begged.

"In a little while," Sherlock promised. "Aunt Molly needs to rest. Baby is tired."

"Oh!" Rosie quickly released Sherlock's hand and turned to Molly, moving to speak directly to her belly. "Sorry!" she pressed a kiss to Molly's belly.

"Ro-o-o-o-o-s-ie!"

The three turned to see John waving for them to return.

"Must be lunch time," Molly said. Sherlock swung Rosie up onto his shoulders. Noticing the little girl was trying to cover her head, Molly took her hat, placing it on the little's girl's head. "There! When we get back to the umbrella, we'll get your hat from your bag."

After lunch, Mary and John took Rosie back to the water to splash around and make sand castles, letting Sherlock and Molly rest.

"You keep looking at me," Sherlock said. He pushed back his sunglasses. "Is there a problem, Doctor Hooper?"

"No," she smiled, shaking her head. Her nerves at the start of the day had seemed too cataclysmically awful, but they all seemed to wash away with the tide when she saw Sherlock. The lovely drive had more than reassured her. Silence was companionable and easy, as easy as talking was. She remembered her conversation with Mary only a few days previous, and taking a breath, she scooted closer to Sherlock, reclining against him. "I'm just so very happy."

Feeling her relax against him, he took a breath. "Are you?" he murmured softly.

"Hmhm," eyes shut, she sighed. "I wish it was always like this."

"It could be, you know," Sherlock ventured. "You…and I…and…the baby."

She lifted her head so she could look at him.

"If you wanted to-" their heads drew closer, and closer-

A piercing shriek cut the moment, and they turned with a start. John was cradling Rosie, and Mary was hurrying back to the towel.

"She cut her foot on a broken shell,"

"First aid kit is in my bag," Molly said, sitting up.

"What shall I do?" Sherlock asked, already getting up.

"Nothing, oh don't worry, please," Mary took the first aid kit from Molly's outstretched hand. "We'll take her up to the pier where we can clean it out properly. It doesn't look serious though."

Sherlock and Molly watched Mary catch up with John who was carrying Rosie, gently soothing her cries. A lifeguard was following close behind, wanting to know what the trouble was.

For a moment, neither knew what to do, the anxiety of Rosie being hurt lingered, even though the situation was well taken care of.

"Shall we go for a walk?" Offered Sherlock, and Molly nodded. He helped her up, and took her wrap from the beach chair, shaking out any loose sand.

"Oh I'll leave it here for now. I'm too pale anyway. May as well get a little tan in," Molly said.

"Shall I get your legs with the sunblock?"

"Why did a miss a spot?"

"Yes." His grin was cheeky, and Molly couldn't find the strength to tell him she was perfectly fine. Still, sunburn sounded dreadfully unappealing at the moment, so she let him fetch the sunblock.

Satisfied that she was sufficiently protected for the time being, Sherlock got back to his feet, tossing the sunblock onto her bag.

"Oh shouldn't we wait for John and Mary? What about our things?"

"Not to worry, Mycroft's got a few plainclothes officers about," Sherlock promised.

Comforted by this reminder, Molly took Sherlock's outstretched hand, together making their way to the water.

"I love Brighton," Molly sighed.

"You used to come here with your father," Sherlock commented.

"Every summer," she nodded. "We'd stay at the empty cottage my grandparents had, from June until August. I still have a jar of sea-glass. Every day dad and I would collect pieces. We'd planned on stringing them together to hang in the garden on the rose bushes."

"Is that what's on your mantle?" Sherlock asked, recalling the large green glass jar.

"Hmhm," Molly nodded. "We never got around to stringing them up though. Our last trip to Brighton was when he got sick, or at least when we realized how sick he was." She looked at her feet, focusing on the sand and water washing over her toes. "We had to leave early because he had to start treatments right away."

Sherlock was silent, knowing words weren't necessary.

Sniffling, Molly brushed the tears from her eyes, smiling this time. "I'm glad Rosie has Mary and John. They both love her so much. That matters."

John and Mary had returned to the umbrella by now, and Rosie was calling to Molly, so they headed back.

"What is it, Lovey?"

"Oh she picked all these flowers," Mary said, setting Rosie on the towel. "She wanted to show you them."

"Oo how lovely!" Molly eased herself down onto the towel with Sherlock's help. "Shall we make flower crowns, Rosie?"

"Yes!"

"There, while you do that, what if dad and I go and fetch us an ice cream?" Mary suggested.

"Please!" Rosie's eyes danced.

"All right you monkey," John chortled as Rosie clambered over to him, kissing his cheeks. "You sit still and keep your foot on the towel, out of the sand, and Mum and I will get ice cream."

"Want to go with you!" Rosie knew too well if she didn't go with them, there might be quite a few licks stolen from her ice cream. She never minded sharing of course, but sometimes mummy and daddy helped themselves before it got to her!

"Okay," John knelt and helped her put her sandals on again. "You can come along."

"Anything for you, Molls?" Mary offered.

"Oh a ninety-nine please!" Molly said, glancing up from her handiwork.

"Right. Sherlock?"

"Nothing, thank you."

Once again left alone, silence settled between them. After a moment, Sherlock lay down, resting his head in her lap. Placing her hat over his face to keep the sun out of his eyes, she went back to weaving a crown of wildflowers for Rosie.

"Oi," a muffled grunt from under the hat made her pause.

"What was that?" she asked with a laugh.

"Tell your daughter to stop kicking me," Sherlock said, lifting the hat slightly.

"She's kicking me too, if that makes you feel any better," Molly replied.

"You, young lady, ought to be resting, not performing somersaults," he admonished the baby, gently prodding Molly's belly. After a moment, the kicking stilled.

"Where were you last night?" Molly sighed. "She's been active since the wee hours."

"Does she keep you up?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course she does. One would think-" here, she stopped. She was about to say: ' _One would think she gets that from you.'_

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing," Molly shrugged. "Why don't you talk to her? That always seems to calm her down. I think she likes to hear your voice."

"Hm. What shall I talk about this time?"

"She seems to like your reciting best," Molly said, and reached for her tote. "There's the 'Hunting of the Snark' on my tablet if you want to read that."

"Hm. It'll do."

~O~

"Now that's a lovely sight," Mary and John stood on the pier, Rosie on Mary's hip, taking bites from their ice creams. They looked down to the beach where Sherlock and Molly were reclining. Sherlock's head was in Molly's lap, he held her tablet, reading aloud while Molly made a crown for Rosie.

"Sherlock and Molly," John sighed. "Whatever are we going to do about them?"

"Let nature take its course, with a little nudge now and then," Mary said.

John noted the eagerness in her voice and turned. She was looking beyond him, to a sign on the light post.

"Oh now _that's_ brilliant."

~O~

"What do you say we stay late?" Mary asked, handing Molly her the ice cream cone.

"Is there something going on?" Molly asked, taking the Flake bar from the cone and eating it first.

"Fireworks display," John said as he sat down. "Some big yacht club is celebrating something, and there's going to be a lantern release and a firework display."

"Oh!" Molly's eyes danced with excitement. "Oh that sounds wonderful! We could have dinner on the pier."

"Won't it be too cold for Rosie?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh we can keep her wrapped up in a blanket, and she can wear my earbuds if it's too noisy for her," Mary answered.

"You should text Mycroft, let him now the car won't be back until very late," Molly advised Sherlock, who took his phone from her purse, tapping out the message.

Inside, Sherlock felt his heart hammering away. Well if ever there would be a time to tell Molly how he felt, it would certainly be then. It had the element of romance, which he supposed couldn't hurt. They'd been so terribly close a little while ago, just before poor Rosie stepped on the shell. While it wasn't Rosie's fault, he was annoyed at the circumstances. Less than an inch and he'd have kissed her. It would be nice to kiss Molly again.

 _Again?_

He frowned. When on earth had he kissed Molly? He thought very carefully, recalling he had pressed her cheek twice, once at the Christmas party, and then on their not-a-date day out, his way of thanking her. He certainly had not kissed her the way he wanted to. So why had he thought he'd like to kiss her _again?_

Deep in his mind palace, he stood in Baker Street, staring at the living room. When on earth have we kissed Molly Hooper?

" _I'm just a representation of your thought, so I can only tell you what you know," Molly replied, leaning against the fridge. Her smile was cheeky. She wore a dress that looked awfully familiar. She'd worn it on a recent case. He needed her help. It was at a retro dance club, jazz music and swing dancing. The drinks were free, and the case was solved within a few hours. Molly looked so beautiful in that lovely green dress that he decided to stay. They decided to stay. They'd had one too many, and they'd returned to Baker Street. Ah. That was it. They were drunk, and he must have kissed her. Yes. Pieces of that memory flitted back to him. He'd kissed her, and she'd kissed him back._

 _Sherlock frowned. What a shame he couldn't properly remember it. In fact there was a good deal, he realized, that he couldn't remember of that long-forgotten evening. Molly could easily out-drink him, but he didn't want to be outdone (pride goeth before the fall, oh how it goeth…)_

"Hello?"

He blinked, finding the sun was in his eyes again, Molly held her sunhat.

"Hm?"

"Were you asleep or just in your mind palace?"

"Mind palace, why?"

"Rosie wants to look at the rock pools, and John and Mary are napping right now."

"Oh," up he got, and helped Molly to her feet as well. Finding the bucket and small shovel, he waited for Molly and Rosie. He watched them make their way down the beach to where the rocks met the sand. The tide pools were mostly empty, as it was nearing sunset. Rosie wore the flower crown that Molly had woven for her, her little hand stretched up to grasp Molly's, her little feet were steady and sure, reminding him that the cut she'd received earlier was not serious at all. He was struck with a sudden thought that this very scene might be a familiar one, if Molly agreed to marry him.

 _If._

His heart ached. If was such a terribly big word.

 **That night, waiting for the lights**

Even in Brighton, Mycroft had pull. A small section of the pier was roped off, and tables and chairs were set up for them. A plainclothes officer brought a sweater and closed-toe shoes for Molly to put on so she wouldn't be cold.

"You're sure you're warm enough?" Sherlock fretted.

"Oh yes, the sweater is just right, and I'm glad I changed my shoes."

Finished with dinner, they turned their chairs, angling them towards the boat launch. A little distance from them, they could hear John and Mary pointing out to Rosie the different ships, the sails and where the lanterns would come from. The lights on the pier dimmed, and a hush fell over the crowd. A flicker of light from one of the bobbing ships, then another, and another, and another. All at once, a sheet was pulled, and lanterns drifted up, up, up and out over the sea, released like a flock of birds. The glow of the lights was tremendous, warm and bright and flickering in the cool night air.

"Oh…" Molly let out a watery breath. Wordlessly, Sherlock handed her a handkerchief. "Stupid hormones," she sniffled, wiping her eyes. "I'll be fine."

Sherlock looked at her questioningly, knowing she had more to say.

"It's just…" she sighed, smiling over her shoulder at the Watson's, then at Sherlock. "My last memory of Brighton was so awful…dad was so sick…everything that I'd come to know was changing and I couldn't do anything to fix it. I never thought I could look at this place and feel happy again."

Slipping her arm through his, he drew her close, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "And now?"

"Now I'm…" she sighed, looking back out to the view, lanterns floating out to sea, the ships lighting up with fairy-lights as they set up the second lights show. "I'm so happy." She turned her head, gazing up at him. "Thank you, Sherlock."

"You're welcome Molly." He bent his head, closing the distance between them.

The whistle of fireworks lighting the sky and the roar of the crowds faded in the distance as their lips met.

The kiss was brief, but it said a good deal more than Sherlock felt himself capable of. Still, he supposed that words cleared up a myriad of questions. They parted, forehead-to-forehead.

"Oh…" Molly murmured, face illuminated by the lights of the fireworks. Her eyes were shining. In the flashes of light Sherlock could see tears of joy, relief, and that particular blush that only Molly Hooper seemed capable of. Or at least the only blush on a woman that seemed to make his heart skip a beat.

"What did you say?" he asked in-between the booms, realizing she'd said something.

"I said we're in love, aren't we?"

His arm settled around her waist, hand tracing circles on her hip. "Yes we are."


	8. Took My Heart Upon a One-Way Trip

Sherlock stayed at Molly's that night. He curled himself around her, large hands cradling her belly, tracing circles and patterns over her skin. He slipped his hands under her sleepshirt, wanting to be as close as he could to her.

They spoke quietly, soft murmurs and laughter, kisses intermingling with their words. Molly's heart felt lighter, glad to have gotten at least one of her secrets out. The other would be harder, naturally, and she feared the outcome more. Hormones were probably compounding her nerves, but Sherlock's lovely attentions to her neck and shoulders were rather distracting at the moment.

Having been out in the sun all day, Molly had a headache, so Sherlock got up and fetched her a cold compress. When he returned, he paused in the doorway, watching her roll onto her side with a sigh.

"Seven more weeks," Molly sighed, stretching on her side, arms up above her head, pointing her toes. She arched in a pretty curve, belly protruding, and Sherlock found himself admiring the lines of her form. Molly wouldn't believe him, but he thought she was lovely. She laughed when he said so, though her giggles fell short when she saw the reverence in his eyes as he regarded her. There was something marvelous about a woman with-child. Perhaps not when they were tired and cranky and sick to their stomachs and suffering all the very un-glamourous symptoms of pregnancy, but there _were_ lovely times, one had to admit. She was building a life inside her, feeding it, protecting it. Inch by inch the miracle of life was swelling inside her, and her body was changing to adapt. Her breasts were growing to feed the child yet to be born, her flesh stretched and dimpled, lines appearing in purplish hues. Her body's accommodation to the child was incredible. Molly abhorred her stretch marks, Sherlock admired them. It was a testament to how much a woman's body could endure. Babies were fascinating to Sherlock; he had not considered how interesting they were until Mary had Rosie. But it wasn't quite the same, with Molly. Though it was true, he would do whatever was in his power to protect Mary and Rosie (John too, of course), it was just a little bit different when it came to Molly. The awful flip-flop his stomach did at the thought of anything happening to her or the baby was greater, and he couldn't quite figure it out. Perhaps because he loved her differently than he did the Watsons.

"Tomorrow is the baby shower," Sherlock commented, handing her the compress. She pressed it to the back of her neck, sighing with some relief.

"It is. Mary was nice enough to offer your flat for the party. Easier to clean, she said."

"Hmm."

"What'd you get me?" Molly asked with a laugh, teasing.

"Oo I shan't say. Besides it's for baby."

"Humph. I could get it out of you if I wanted to."

"Hmm," his smile was fairly naughty as he looked at her through half-lidded eyes. He drew her close, pressing against the crook of her neck, leaving a tender kiss there. "I have no doubt about that."

Silence settled between them, and their breathing became easy. Still, as Sherlock began to drift off, Molly felt herself growing sick at heart. Sherlock was giving himself to her, he'd overcome whatever fears he had and opened his heart, confessed how he felt, no matter how difficult it was for him. Here he was, trusting her implicitly, and she had such an awful secret. Molly knew herself well enough; she had told him one truth, she couldn't keep the other hidden. She found she did not want to either.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?" He opened his eyes, lifting his head slightly as Molly turned to face him in his arms.

"I have to tell you something," she fiddled with the cuffs of her shirt, avoiding his gaze. "It's…I should have told you…and I think- no, I _know_ that I can't keep it from you, not if we're to be together. I couldn't live with myself if I never told you."

He frowned, worried at the sadness in her voice. Whatever she had kept from him, it had been eating away at her. Too fast. They'd gone too fast. He should have waited until the baby was born to tell her he loved her. He should have-

"That's not it," she interrupted. She pushed herself upright, leaning against the headboard.

Oh. Apparently, he'd been thinking aloud again. "Sorry, go on," he murmured, sheepish.

"You can be angry, you can shout and…and carry on…you can even leave if you want, leave and not come back…if you…" she trailed off, eyes filling with tears again. "I won't blame you," she shook her head. "I promise I won't, for whatever you do or say…"

"Molly, Molly," he sat up beside her, cupping her cheeks. "Good heavens, woman, what is the matter? Why would I leave you?"

"Because it's yours, it's your baby," she sobbed. "It's yours and I never told you."

"What?" His ears were ringing. Surely, he'd misheard. He must have misheard.

"This baby," she placed his hand over her belly, palm flat against her curve. "This is your baby too."

Sherlock leaned back, loosely holding her. "Mine?" he asked softly. "Mine, Molly Hooper?"

"I should have told you," Molly finally looked up at him, unable to hide her shame any longer. " _Say_ something, please."

He was staring at the rumpled blankets deep in thought.

"That night we solved the jazz band murder..." he looked to her for confirmation. "That was the night we," he looked at her belly, the ripples underneath his fingers. "We made her." It was perhaps the silliest way he could have said it, but Sherlock couldn't think of any other way of putting it. They _had_ made this baby. This beautiful life growing inside of Molly.

Molly's one comfort was that he had not pulled away from her yet. "I wanted to tell you," she murmured. "So many times, I wanted to, and you never seemed to suspect and I wish…" she shrugged. "It doesn't matter now. I'm so sorry."

"I wish you had told me." Sherlock answered, quiet, clearly hurt by her secretiveness. He fell silent a moment. "Is it because I didn't remember?"

Again, she nodded. "I thought you didn't want to remember, or that you made yourself forget because you regretted it…and then after you found out I was pregnant I didn't know how to tell you."

"I'm sorry I forgot," Sherlock answered. "That's something I shall regret forgetting. It was the start of us, of our family."

"I wish you'd make this harder on me," Molly laughed through her tears.

"I am upset," Sherlock admitted slowly. "I'm…I'm quite hurt. Why didn't you tell me? Have I really not made my intentions clear?"

Immediately, Molly shook her head. "No, no, Sherlock, it wasn't you, it was me, doubting myself. I was afraid. As time went on it got harder and harder to tell you the truth. It was easier to go along with what you thought was true. But I couldn't let her be born and you go on wondering, not if you want to be a part of her life."

He cupped her belly with both hands now, fingers responding to the baby's movements. "It's strange. I've spent so many months wishing she was mine." He looked at Molly finally.

"She will be, if you still want her…want us, I mean."

"What, both of you?" Sherlock asked, chuckling softly, teasing.

"We're a package deal, I'm afraid, two for the price of one."

"And what is your price, Molly Hooper?"

She fell silent, her smile disappeared, and nervousness flashed briefly over her features. "Forgiveness, if…if you could forgive me." Was her meek response.

"Only if I may forgive myself," he answered. "I've forgotten a precious memory, one that I would have cherished, and, if you would forgive yourself for keeping it from me."

She curled up in his arms, kissing him everywhere her lips would reach. "I've spent so many years lecturing you on the truth and telling you what's right and wrong, how could you ever look at me and not be angry? It's your baby and I kept it from you."

"You still let me be a part of your life, you still let me do all the things I wanted to with you," he tried.

"But all the time you didn't-"

"No I didn't," he cut her off. "Molly, I have not often given you a reason to believe I'd be a good father, and my omission of that night, my utter disregard for your feelings at a time when I should have…especially when I should have put you first." he shrugged. "I am hurt, but your secretiveness is understandable, and forgivable. I only wish you would have told me sooner, so you wouldn't have had to go through the early weeks alone and petrified."

"I wasn't petrified…" she glanced up at him, at his expression and laughed. "Not completely at any rate."

"All the more reason for me to stick around. I plan on being very present for every aspect of our children's lives."

"'Children's?" she echoed.

"Oh yes," Sherlock nodded, quite serious. "I should think we'd make very attractive children, and I like odd numbers."

"How many, Sherlock," Molly poked him in the chest. "It's my uterus."

Sherlock paused then. "Well I had thought maybe seven…"

"Seven! Are we starting a small army?"

"Well you must account for the chance of twins, or triplets even-"

"We're _not_ having twins," Molly poked him again.

"We might though-"

"Let's start with this one," Molly said, gentler. "And then we'll see what happens after."

"I'll have to do more research, but if you're opposed to more than four children, perhaps we ought to exercise caution," he said. "This," he cupped her belly once more. "Was a result of _one_ night. Imagine what several years of marriage will do for us."

"Don't mistake me," Molly said, twining her arms around him, reveling in the feel of his arms cradling her. "I _do_ want a family with you, and we have a lot to discuss over the next few weeks, but Sherlock Holmes I am not pushing seven children into this world. Especially not if we're living in Central London."

Sherlock was silent, he kissed her forehead. "Very well," he sighed. A pause. "You're saying if we didn't live in London you'd be more susceptible to the idea of a large family?"

A sharp pinch to his backside made him jerk back, yelping in surprise. "Later, Sherlock," she cautioned him. "We'll talk about it later. Let's have this one first."

His gaze softened at her words, bringing him to the present once more, to the thought that the baby he had wished was his, truly was, and the woman he loved would be too. "Agreed."

 **Three Weeks Later…**

Now that Molly had confessed both her feelings and the baby's parentage, she felt as if she were walking on air. Sherlock proposed, and while the ring did not quite fit yet, Molly wore it on a chain around her neck, counting down the days when the ring would fit properly. A date was set,

"The sooner the better," both Sherlock and Molly agreed. There would be time for a proper holiday, but for now, Sherlock wanted to enjoy both married life and parenthood. Once the baby was old enough, he thought he and Molly might go on a short holiday to the country. Perhaps they could look at houses while they were there. Molly didn't know yet what to think, moving to the country. It certainly sounded idyllic. She wanted to wait and see though. She wanted to enjoy being a mum first. Perhaps she wouldn't want to go back to work just yet. Perhaps she could work from home, that way she could be with the baby for as long as possible.

A knock on the door startled both her and Mary.

"Cripes, there, good thing I didn't poke your eye out. You're all set. I'll get the door." Mary capped the mascara and swished off down the hall, skirt rustling. "One minute!" she called, checking her own appearance just once more in the hall mirror.

"All ready? Sherlock's just about jumping out of his skin waiting." John asked as she let him in. He paused to take in his wife, let out a short whistle and she gave him a turn, winking saucily at him.

"Enjoy it while you can Doctor Watson, soon as we get home, this dress is going to the back of our closet."

"Hmm. I'd rather see it on the floor of our room," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her collarbone. She flushed, quite pleased with the effect she had on her husband, even if the dress pinched.

The thumping of little feet made them turn. Rosie came barreling down the hallway, flowers in her hair, ruffles on her dress fluttering.

"I'm a 'pincess!" she declared.

"Yes, you are!" John laughed, scooping her up and kissing her. "Come on then, Princess Rosamund, time we were off!"

"Is Sherlock meeting us there?' Molly asked, stepping out of her bedroom.

John paused, gaze softening as he regarded the pathologist.

Molly was lovely, inside and out, really, but today she was especially so. She was positively glowing. Dressed in a lilac colored frock, the fabric flowing just so over her baby bump. Mary had done up Molly's hair very nicely, flowers and some greenery here and there. John wasn't certain of what sorts of flowers, but they looked very nice just the same.

"She does look good, doesn't she?" Mary asked seeing her husband become rather misty-eyed.

"Makes me wish I'd pulled out my morning suit," John confessed. "I'll look a mess as best man now."

"Nonsense," Molly smiled, kissing his cheek in thanks. "Besides, Mycroft and Sherlock are just in suits as well."

"Are their parents coming?" Mary asked.

Molly's smile faltered for just a moment, and she busied herself with looking at her bouquet for anything that had gone over. "No, they can't make it."

"Well never mind," Mary said, quickly.

"It was last minute after all," John added. "We're meeting you there, yes?"

"Yes," Molly's smile brightened at the change of subject. "Mycroft is picking me up. He insisted on it."

"Right. See you there then," John and Mary pressed her cheeks once more, then re-corralled Rosie who was bouncing on the sofa, promising they'd make sure everything was set at the courthouse.

Molly went to sit by the window, thinking of the elder Holmes. Sherlock had texted them at her insistence, at least to notify them, but neither of the Holmes' brothers wanted their parents to attend. Molly couldn't fathom why.

" _They won't come anyway," Sherlock said._

" _Why not?" Molly asked, quite surprised._

" _There's been a good deal of…trouble in the past. They'll make everyone uncomfortable. Mummy is…" he sighed heavily. "Please don't mistake, we care very much for our parents. But there were incidents in our past that should have been handled better, should have been handled differently. Mummy is a determined woman, she can be difficult, and once she has something in her head, she remains convinced, no matter if the truth is before her. She'll only bring up bad feelings…she'll make Mycroft uncomfortable."_

" _Good heavens…" Molly could only say. She squeezed his forearm. "I've never heard you speak so feelingly of your brother. It's not like you to worry for his comfort."_

 _He looked at her, somewhat hurt, but understanding her words. He had not been the kindest to his brother._

" _I am trying to be," he answered. "For all he has done for the family, he doesn't deserve their blame, or her venom. Mummy has quite the acid tongue."_

" _Well now we know where you get it from," Molly added with a teasing smile._

" _I hope not lately, at least not towards those I care about," he said softly. "I do remember, you know…every time I said something awful to you. I remember each one. I'm sorry for those words, I was sorry then. Too much of a coward to say so before, I expect. But in finding my sister, in learning all that my brother has done, tried to do, and seeing Mummy's reaction to him…" Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip, pausing to gather his thoughts. "I find I don't look up to her as much as I used to…I don't want to be like her."_

 _Molly cupped his face in her hands, soothing him. "You're not, Sherlock. And I forgive you. You've come so far from the man you were, both you and Mycroft." Her smile was warm and fond. "I'm so proud of you."_

" _I would do most anything for you, to keep you safe," he placed his hands over her belly. "But please don't ask me to invite my parents."_

 _She nodded, promising._

It did not sit right with her, Sherlock and Mycroft's dislike for their parents, but it was a matter that was not to be dealt with now. Time would heal these wounds, perhaps somehow, Molly could be the one to bridge that gap. She did not know all of what the elder Holmes had done to earn their sons disfavor, but perhaps there was a way to keep everyone on more even footing than forced, yearly visits where everyone was uncomfortable and bitter.

It was something to think of, but not today at any rate.

Mycroft's car pulled up to the curb, and Molly got to her feet, smoothing down her dress.

She was half-way downstairs when he was coming in the entrance.

He paused, hand on the door, then smiled.

"How pretty you are today Molly," he said in greeting. "And how is my niece?"

"Busy turning somersaults. I hope the car ride will settle her somewhat."

"We can stop for bicarbonate of soda if you need some," he offered, meeting her halfway and taking her arm, assisting her the rest of the way down.

"I'll be fine."

"Mummy sends her regards, by the way. She is sorry their cruise has been docked for the time being. Bad weather or something."

"I thought they were in Italy!"

"They decided to take a cruise instead. They only got as far as Cuba before they had to stop. I must warn you, as soon as they return to England, they will descend upon you and Sherlock. I think you will like father, he's rather a comfortable sort, but mummy might prove…a challenge."

"Yes, Sherlock has told me so," Molly nodded. "I'd like to do what I can, to mend any bad words between you."

Mycroft paused as she got into the car, choosing his words carefully. "A good deal that happened, Mummy and father blame me for my sister's condition-"

"Which they had no right to do, you know that, don't you?" Molly put in. She waited until he'd climbed in beside her before looping her arm in his. "Whatever they did or didn't do, whatever they've blamed you for, it isn't your fault."

Mycroft tried to smile at her words. He wanted very much to believe them. Molly spoke with such meaning and sincerity, he realized she actually believed them. "Thank you, for the sentiment, Molly, but-"

"No buts," Molly turned herself to face forward. "It's my wedding day, and I'm very pregnant. Today I must have my way."

His smile grew then, genuinely. "As you say, sister-mine."

She squeezed his arm affectionately. "It's exciting, isn't it? I've never had siblings before."

"Sherlock mentioned you wanted to send Eurus a gift of some sort."

Molly nodded. "I know her condition is very delicate, and that I won't be able to visit her, but I just want her to know she's still part of the family. I wanted to send a picture of the baby, and Sherlock and I. Maybe a small album of the family, so she knows we're thinking of her, even if all of us can't see her."

"She might appreciate that," Mycroft agreed. "Please let me know when you would like them delivered."

The ceremony was short and simple. It was not the wedding Molly had envisioned, but in the end, she wouldn't have changed a thing. Mary and Mrs. Hudson stood on her side, and Mycroft, John and Lestrade stood on Sherlock's side. Rosie went skipping down the rows of chairs, tossing flower petals until she came to a stop at the judge, staring up at the man shrouded in his great black gown and wig. After a moment, she went to stand beside her mother, slipping her little fingers into her mother's hand.

It was Stamford who gave Molly away, placing her hand in Sherlock's.

"Mind you take care of her," he said quietly, somewhat choked with emotion and Sherlock nodded, promising he would. He was somewhat at a loss for words, finally able to set his eyes on his bride.

"All right?" he asked, seeing Molly wince for just a moment.

"Nothing, just heartburn. Probably the excitement."

Sherlock squeezed her hands comfortingly, thumbs tracing circles on the backs of her hands.

Molly might have known the day was going too well. The 'I Do's' were said, congratulations were given. They were all sitting down at a table in the Ritz. There was champagne for everyone and sparkling lemonade for Molly and Rosamund. Midway through the meal, Molly excused herself, and Mary went with her. Nobody thought anything of it, talk went on as it had. Sherlock endured some lighthearted jabs from John and Stamford when suddenly a waiter came to the table from the back, murmuring something in Sherlock's ear. He was up like a shot, running towards the ladies room, the waiter following behind, pleading with him not to burst into the ladies' toilets.

 **Meanwhile in the toilets…**

"I want to go home!" Molly sobbed.

"We'll get you home," Mary promised. She turned to Rosamund. "Darling, go and fetch your father," Rosamund went off running, happy to help. Poor Molly's water broke.

"It's too early," Molly said. "Of all places, in the toilets-"

"I should think the Ritz has the nicest bathrooms to have your waters break," Mary said with a gentle smile. She smoothed Molly's hair. "There, there, at least everything is clean, and you didn't get anything on your dress either."

"Oh I'm making such a scene, I'll have to walk back through the restaurant."

"No you won't, we can go out the back."

By now a small crowd of women had gathered, most of them asking what could be done, or if an ambulance ought to be called.  
"I'm not going to the hospital," Molly began to stand, and Mary helped her straighten her dress.

"Molly!" Sherlock's voice could be heard on the other side of the bathroom door. "Molly!"

"It's my husband, let him in," Molly implored. She needn't have said anymore for Sherlock burst in, John and Rosamund close behind.

"Gentlemen, please-" The waiter behind them was trying to guide them back out.

Sherlock ignored him, he'd brought his coat with him, and he draped it over Molly's shoulders, ushering her out. "We'll go out the back," he said. "Mycroft has a car waiting."

"Oh thank heavens," Molly breathed.

"It may be a while yet," he offered, trying to be positive.

"She's still four weeks early," Molly fretted.

John followed them into the car. Mycroft handed him a bag from the trunk.

"You'll find what you need there to examine her, I shall follow in the other car with Mrs. Watson and Rosamund. We'll meet you at the flat." Mycroft said, and glancing worriedly to Molly, he shut the door after them.

Lestrade, the good man that he was, hit the sirens on his car, flipping the lights on to clear the lanes for them.

"This isn't exactly how I planned tonight would go," Sherlock commented, once the car joined in the traffic.

Molly, trying to keep her breathing regular, couldn't help but laugh as she looked up at him over John's head as the doctor listened to the baby's heartbeat. "No take-backs."


	9. Fingers and Thumbs, Baby

"It's not too early," John told Sherlock for the third time, as the cab pulled up outside of Molly's flat. "I told you before, the baby is at a healthy weight, Molly's been fit as a fiddle."

"We need to go to the hospital-" Sherlock tried again.

"Over my dead body," Molly ground out.

"And mum knows best," John said with a smile, lowering the stethoscope. "Least she does for now anyway. But if I see something amiss, I don't want any arguments, do you understand me?"

Molly grunted, feeling another wave of contractions come.

"Oi," John pressed, and she nodded at last.

"I heard you," she said. "I promise. It's not bad, honestly,"

"It'll get worse before it gets better," John replied. "Come on now, let's get you upstairs and out of your clothes."

Sherlock glanced quickly over his wife's head. "Not the best choice of words, John."

"Shut _up_ , Sherlock," John and Molly insisted.

The other car pulled up behind them, and Mycroft stepped out, lifting Rosie from the car seat and then giving his hand to Mary.

"Should I call Adeela?" Mary asked.

"She's already helping another client," Sherlock answered. "She'll get here as soon as she can."

"Tell her not to worry," Molly said as John helped her inside. "Please, Sherlock tell her for me? I've got John and Mary already."

"Yes but he's not a midwife!" Sherlock insisted.

"He is a doctor, I'd imagine he knows the mechanics of it," Molly replied sharply.

"He did take a midwifery course when I was pregnant with Rosie," Mary volunteered.

"Oughtn't Rosie go home?" Mycroft asked. "I should be more than willing to-"

"No, she may stay," Molly said, again with a grunt as John leaned her against the table, and Sherlock bent, helping her out of her shoes. "If John and Mary don't mind that, is."

"No of course not," John shook his head. "We're all family here, and doctors and nurses at that."

"It would help if you stayed and kept her busy though," Mary added, rushing past Mycroft, heading towards the bathroom to give everything a wipe-down.

"Oh, everyone calm down, please," Molly pleaded. "Just because my water broke doesn't mean the baby's going to pop out immediately after. Good grief. Contractions have barely started. Someone put the kettle on. Hardly anyone got to eat, there's take-away menus in the drawer by the fridge."

"Where do you want to be?" John asked.

"I want to change first, and for goodness' sake, everyone please stop acting like I'm going to snap into bits. I'll tell you when to panic. Sherlock, come help me change."

~O~

In the quiet bedroom, Molly stood, taking in the silence, the muffled noise of the others in the living room barely audible. Sherlock fussed around the room, scooping up laundry they hadn't picked up yet. The bed was still unmade from that morning.

"Help me into one of my sports bras, for when I'm in the tub. I'll just wear a sleep shirt until then," Molly said, when he asked what she'd rather wear. "Long enough to cover my thighs."

"Shorts?"

"Yeah, don't want to scare Mycroft," Molly said with a laugh.

"Lean on me," Sherlock said and he knelt, helping her out of her shoes. He unrolled her stockings and tossed them aside. His cheek was pressed against her belly as he did so, and he felt the baby give another kick.

"Oo," Molly breathed, feeling her knees go weak.

"Steady," he murmured, then realized he wasn't sure if he was talking to the baby or to Molly. "I'm here, I'm right here," he pressed a kiss to her stomach, then got to his feet. She met his gaze, and he smiled reassuringly. "I'm not going anywhere," he said, as if she needed the reminder, and she smiled, relaxing somewhat. Moving around to unzip her, he kept his arm out so she could hold onto him.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmhm?"

Her fingers flexed against his arm, finding her balance as she swayed, shifting her feet. "I'm scared."

He lifted his head, studying her back for a moment as he pondered her words, trying to find his own. Squeezing her shoulder with his free hand, he pressed a gentle kiss to the nape of her neck. "So am I. Not knowing what's going to happen…all these emotions whirling about and nowhere to really direct them…but it's exciting too, isn't it?"

She gave a nervous laugh, calmer this time. "Yes, yes, it is. One thing is for certain at least, this time tomorrow, we'll be holding her."

"Maybe not," Sherlock objected, sliding her dress down, thumbs sliding between the fabric and her skin to encourage the fabric over her belly and hips. "Sometimes labors can last for a very long time. There was a case I read about, a woman in Poland who endured a seventy-five day labor."

"If that's to be believed, you can depend on me being very pissed off indeed," Molly added.

One final tug and her dress slipped down over her calves, pooling at her feet. Sherlock gave his hand again, helping her step out of it.

"Arms up, young lady, and about face," carefully, he helped her into the sleep shirt and then she turned to face him. Once certain she was covered, he pulled her close, kissing her forehead, each flushed cheek and finally her lips. "I never thought I'd get to be a father," he murmured, wonder in his tone. "You've given me a gift I cannot place a price on…"

Teary-eyed, she smiled up at him. "I can't believe I never told you. I feel so foolish."

"You should," he answered. "But not too foolish, I think John would say something about my intellect regarding the obvious."

"Humph."

"I still wish I could remember that night," Sherlock added, quieter.

"From what I recall, it ended too soon, and we were both sloppy, so I don't think it's anything specifically magical to remember," Molly laughed.

Sherlock looked entirely insulted.

"Oh don't look so upset. We were both piss-faced." She stepped back somewhat and went to the dresser to fish around for a pair of shorts to put on.

"Molly!"

She turned to look at him as she kept on rummaging through the dresser. "Hm?"

"Do you realize your only interaction with me sexually has probably been my worst performance in my entire life!"

"Well it can't have been that poor, you did get me pregnant the first go," she shrugged with a laugh, patting her belly. Finding a pair of shorts, she carefully bent, stepping into them. Sherlock stepped forward and knelt, helping her into them.

"That can't count as our first time! It was rubbish!" he insisted.

"How do you know? You can't remember!" Molly retorted, hands on her hips. He batted at her, moving her hands out of the way so he could finish pulling up her pants.

"You just said it was sloppy and over too soon!"

"Well it was!"

"Our first time should be memorable, not some…drunken quickie!" Sherlock said, folding his arms across his chest.

"Well it's too late for that, we can't not count it, the baby is a result of it, you tit." Molly replied, trying her hardest not to laugh at what had to be their most ridiculous argument. She bent, cupping his face as he sulked. "If it makes you feel any better, I was probably just as sloppy."

"You were probably lovely and pretending I wasn't a dribbling idiot."

"Maybe," she shrugged. "But it doesn't matter. My only regret about that night is that we let drinks do the talking. I'd like to think we can communicate on a romantic level without alcohol."

"I can!" Sherlock insisted, standing.

"And after six weeks, you can show me," Molly laughed. "Promise?"

"Promise." He kissed her to seal the deal, hugging her once more.

Leaving the bedroom, Sherlock helping Molly into one of his dressing gowns, they looked at the others, quite forgotten, all sitting in the living room.

"Oh…right…" Molly looked somewhat red, realizing they all had heard. Only Rosie babbling to herself underneath the coffee table could be heard.

Coughing slightly, Mycroft stood, offering his chair to Molly, who eased herself down.

"Don't feel too bad, Sherlock," John piped up finally. "I fell asleep on Mary once."

Mary nodded in agreement. " _Literally_. On top of me."

"Oh no!" Molly tried not to laugh, then winced, rubbing her belly. "Oooo, steady on," she held out her hand. "Help me up, I think I'd rather walk a little," Sherlock and Mycroft both gave their arms, helping her to her feet. As she stood, her knees nearly gave out. "Oh that's not good," she groaned. "Not bad, it's just-" her voice was strained, tears springing to her eyes.

"If you can still talk through the contractions then-"

"I don't think she can talk now, Sherlock," John interrupted. "Let's get you to the bath, shall we? Mycroft will you watch Rosie?"

"Naturally."

Sandwiched between John and Sherlock, Molly managed to waddle to the bathroom. Mary ran ahead of them to fill the tub and see about blankets and see that the delivery kit under the sink was stocked.

"It should all be there," Sherlock said, seeing Mary look it over.

"I scrubbed the tub yesterday," Molly managed to say.

"I gave it a quick swipe while you were changing, speaking of, bottoms off and into the tub."

"Sherlock get the camera," Molly insisted. "Mary promised to photograph it,"

"What?!" Sherlock looked alarmed.

"Oh for goodness sakes, camera," Mary snapped her fingers, and Sherlock hopped to, scurrying from the bathroom.

"Don't you want Mary to help deliver?" Sherlock asked when he returned.

"No, you'll take rubbish pictures," Molly insisted. "Or forget entirel-hooooooo-oooo-"

"Oo that's a big one," John said, voice steady and soothing. "Nice and easy, breaths, that's a girl Molls, lovely, pant, pant, that's the way-"

Mary snatched the camera, switching it on, capturing the first shot: John soothing Molly through the first wave of contractions.

"First of many," she smiled at the group. "Go on as if I weren't here. Sherlock, you perch yourself by Molly's head, John will take the aft, as he ought to see what's going on downstairs."

"We aren't there yet," John piped up. "You're dilating, which is good. But if you'd like to get in the tub now it might help you relax a bit more."

Sherlock helped Molly out of her shorts while John held her steady, minding where she put her feet as she stepped over the lip of the tub and sank into the water with a groan.

"Here, your shirt will be soaked," Sherlock helped her sit up for a moment to help her out of it. Wringing it out, he hung it over the end of the hamper to dry.

"You can shift position as you need," Mary advised. "And don't worry, I won't get any cheeky snaps."

Molly gave a watery laugh, recovered enough from her birthing pains to smile.

A quiet knock on the door made them all turn. Mycroft stood in the partway open door, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the floor, Rosie holding onto his hand, wide-eyed and peering at the crowd in the bathroom.

"Rosie is beginning to tire, and wanted to say goodnight."

"Oh, let her, please," Molly insisted, and rose to her knees. Leaning against the end of the tub, she held her hand out for Rosie to come forward.

"Okay?" Rosie asked, soft and worried.

"Yes lovey, your little cousin is coming soon now."

Rosie's eyes danced, excited, she clapped her hands, bouncing up and down.

"Gentle, Rosie," Mary cautioned. "Gentle, Auntie Molly is very tender."

"Sorry," Rosie murmured.

Beside her, John and Mary exchanged warm smiles, pleased.

"Now give us a kiss," Molly said. "And let Uncle Mycroft tuck you in." Rosie obeyed, then kissed her parents and Sherlock in turn before rejoining Mycroft at the door.

"I'll see she's put to bed," Mycroft promised. "The couch seemed most likely."

"Lots of blankets and sheets in the cupboard by the stairs- Ooooo-"

"Steady on," John warned. "Sherlock can show him."

"I'll find them," Mycroft promised, and waved Sherlock off, who hadn't even moved yet.

"Don't worry about shouting as you carry on," Mary added, once Mycroft and Rosie were gone. "She sleeps like the dead once she's out."

"Hm. And if I know my brother, he'll have her fast off in no time, telling her some horribly boring story," Sherlock added.

"Be nice, he'll be babysitting some nights for us," Molly said, shifting to lean against the end of the tub, lifting her knees up and then stretching her legs out again. "Can't get comfortable."

"Keep your knees up, it'll help open up the pelvis," John answered.

"My pelvis is about to be cracked apart," Molly groused, feeling another wave of contractions.

"I'll fetch some ice chips for you," John gave her hand a comforting squeeze before he got up.

From the living room, Rosie began to fuss and call for her mother, so Mary got up.

"Back in a tick. Don't push her out just yet!"

"I won't," Molly laughed through the pain. "She's not exactly in a rush."

"She's certainly causing a lot of fuss though," Sherlock smiled gently at his wife. Wife! There was a lovely thought. Such a new, marvelous, exciting thought. He knelt by the tub, and she scooted closer to the side, resting her head against his, breathing through the pain.

"She takes her arrival cues from you, I think- oooowwwwww-"

"Nice and easy," he soothed. "That's the way-" Somehow, he managed to keep his outward appearance calm, though inside he was going absolutely mad, ripping through all his carefully laid baby-rooms, looking for facts and figures, and looking for a possible solution to ease Molly's pain. Of course, there wasn't any, and all he could do was hold her hand and speak as consolingly as he could.

"Do me a favor," she said, once the contractions passed. "Go and fetch Mycroft, will you?"

"What for?" Sherlock frowned. "He doesn't like this sort of thing."

"That's why I'm calling him in now, before it gets really messy, go get him, now," Molly squeezed his hand, and he nodded, getting to his feet. "Tell everyone to keep out, until he comes out too,"

"But-"

"No buts, go on."

Mycroft stared at his younger brother, Rosie half-asleep on his lap. "I…what?"

"I'll take her back" Mary said, and gently eased her daughter onto her shoulder, gently swaying. "Go on. Can't be the first compromising position you've been in."

He got to his feet, tugging at his waistcoat, smoothing his tie and adjusting his cuffs before he moved down the hall to the bathroom. Knocking lightly, he waited for Molly to call him in.

She lay in the bath, which was half-full.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Oh sit down, goodness," Molly urged with a grunt. She'd pulled her hair up into a messy pony-tail.

"You'll have snarles," he cautioned, and reached. "May I?"

"Go on," she nodded tiredly. "You fix my hair, and I'll talk."

"I expect this is about my family," he said, carefully tugging the elastic from her hair. He clicked his tongue at her and took a brush from the counter, starting from the bottom and working his way up to her scalp. "If it's to rescind the offer of the baby photograph to Eurus, nothing has been arranged as of yet-"

"No, it isn't that," Molly interrupted. "Well, partly, I wouldn't like to send her something that will cause her pain. She might see it and think that…well look at how everyone is living their lives and she can't be here with us. I mean, I know why she can't-"

"As does she, tilt," he pushed her head forward so he could start plaiting her hair.

"You're good at this," she commented, feeling him begin to braid her long hair.

"I used to have to fix Eurus' hair," he said, a somewhat prideful smile gracing his lips. "And as for the other matter, I think that Eurus will be able to read your intentions very well, should she choose to allow herself to see what's put before her. She is still…very much retreating inside of herself. Quite unreachable." He fell silent, pausing to gather himself. Quietly, he went on fixing her hair. He cleared his throat, continuing: "But if you are worried, a note of some sort would not go amiss. She is allowed letters from the family. Mummy and father send postcards from wherever they travel, and Sherlock and I each take it in turns to mail a letter every other week, usually including puzzles and word games, not that she touches them."

"I want to send her an album," Molly said at last. She leaned forward, groaning. Mycroft moved towards the door to call for Sherlock, but she waved him back. "It's all right. I'll shout if it's really time, I promise. Then you can run. But listen," she held out her hand to him, and he took it, letting her squeeze his thin fingers until they were nearly crushed as she keened, low, pained. Finally, she pulled herself upright again, and Mycroft marveled at his sister in-law. He'd always known Molly was focused and determined, and seeing her power through a truly difficult stage of life (literally giving life, that is), was a wonder to see. "I want a proper album, family snapshots, of all of us. We start fresh, from tonight, going forward. Eurus is our sister, she's done bad things, and for those she has to answer to, but between all of us, we are family. Family can't be replaced, and once they're gone, we can't re-do what's been said or take back what we did. Wouldn't it be so much better to try and mend things now? I think deep down you all love each other very much, only you're all too bloody prideful to do anything about it."

Mycroft found himself smiling gently as well. "I…I shall make the arrangements for a photographer as soon as you say," he promised.

"I want her to have something to hold, to look at. Maybe one day we'll be able to have a photograph with her. Or at least just me and her, I don't know, but I don't want her to miss all of this."

"I don't know whatever we did to deserve you, sister-mine, but I do think you'll be the best thing for us," with that, he kissed her forehead. "I'll see to everything, I promise." He murmured, then straightened. "Come in, Sherlock,"

"Everything all right?" he asked, stepping in. "Oh good, you fixed her hair. I can't do a thing with it."

"You never could, brother-mine," Mycroft added with a smirk.

"Be nice, boys," Molly chided, breathless, feeling another contraction. "Thank you, Mycroft."

"No trouble at all." With that, he and Sherlock traded places, and John and Mary filed in bearing the camera, ice chips and cold compresses.

"Here I found an inflatable pillow for your neck," Mary said.

"Thanks."

From the living room, Rosie taking up part of the sofa, snuggled up with a stuffed rabbit, her feet propped up on his knees, Mycroft listened as Molly pushed his niece into the world. He could hear John giving instruction, and, best of all, he could hear Sherlock murmuring encouragement, praising her. How far his brother had come! Perhaps if this had all happened at another time, if this were years ago, perhaps Sherlock still would have been at Molly's side. Mycroft had no doubt that Sherlock would have been at her side for such an occasion, regardless of what their relationship was at the time. But now, Sherlock was so much better, so much…dare he say it, human. Come to think of it, so was he. What an acid thought! Still. Mycroft looked at Rosie, fast asleep, clearly comfortable in his presence. He thought of his niece, who he would be holding in a matter of hours. It was a plain and simple fact that the ice-man was melting fast. At least when it came to family. True, they were still not a normal family, they wouldn't all sit down to meals every Saturday night and watch football on tv and make regular outings together, but the feelings were what mattered. Mycroft would do anything for his family, did and would still do so. Deep down, he would always love his family and do everything within his power to keep them safe and protected. Happiness hadn't ever factored into it, not really. But now with Molly as a part of it, perhaps she could help bring them all together again.

" _That's it, love, that's it, nearly there, nearly there, nearly there-"_

" _Baby's head is born, little pushes, Molls, gorgeous, gorgeous, that's the way, shoulders now- here she comes- grab her shoulders, and ease her out, there we go, there we go, there she is!"_

Mycroft listened to John Watson helping Molly, he could see Mary perched on the sink in the bathroom, snapping shots, clearly crying and beaming with joy. She caught sight of him and nodded him over. One last look at Rosie to be sure she was asleep, he got up, again tugging nervously at his waistcoat.

At the doorway, he stood by Mary, expecting her to show him the last few shots, instead she pushed the door open wide. Molly lay in the tub, a newborn baby girl cradled to her chest. Sherlock was openly weeping, and John was resting on his elbows, chin against his arms, smiling at the scene. Mycroft heard the camera snap, quite sure Mary was taking his own reaction for posterity. He found he couldn't care less. It wasn't just Molly who was the new addition to the family, nor the baby either. It was the Watson's, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade and Stamford. What a messy hodge-podge of people that made up the family.

It wasn't such a bad thing, being human.

Sherlock dried his eyes, murmuring that the tub ought to be drained soon.

"Once the after-birth is delivered," John said. "Shouldn't be long now, and we'll get mum and baby rinsed off and checked out. I know the last thing you want is to let her go," he said. Molly smiled, weary, breathless. Despite her exhaustion, there was such a glow about her, she was lovely through and through.

"I know, vitals, weight, height," she answered. "Just give me a moment, give me a moment," she was trying to reassure herself that she'd just given birth, that she was holding her lovely baby girl at long last!

"I know," John nodded. "Just enjoy it right now. The chaos will come soon enough."

"It'll be over lickety-quick," Mary promised. She passed the camera to Mycroft and hopped down off the sink, gathering a blanket and warm cloth. While she and John made quick work of cleaning off baby and taking vitals, Sherlock helped Molly through the after-birth.

John showed Sherlock how to cut the cord, and Sherlock, with trembling hands, did as instructed, glancing up at his wife once the deed was done, eyes shining.

"What about names?" Mycroft suddenly piped up, finding he barely had a voice, too moved by the scene before him.

Sherlock and Molly exchanged smiles, and she nodded to her husband.

"In keeping with the hideous Holmes tradition, Molly has elected for a ridiculously long name, in the hopes that, like her father and Uncle, she will be teased mercilessly by her schoolmates-"

"Sherlock!" Molly reached, pinching his backside (which was the nearest for her to pinch).

"Ottilie Marie Florence Zephyr Holmes," Sherlock quoted, chest puffed out, quite proud.

"Zephyr?" Mycroft quoted, an eyebrow raised. "As in the Greek God of the western wind and summer breeze?"

"Mm," Molly nodded, cheeky smile. "Something to warm all you cold Holmes' hearts."

"You don't play fair," Mycroft insisted.

"Who says we don't?" Mary asked, placing Ottilie into her father's arms. Sherlock for his part, felt his knees sag, and he sank down onto the closed toilet seat, staring in awe at the bundle in his arms.

Rosie, from the living room, began to stir. The afterbirth was delivered, and the tub was drained, so John quickly washed up and went to fetch Rosie, while Mary helped Molly rinse off.

"You take her," Sherlock gently passed Ottilie to Mycroft, and then turned to help Molly to her feet before lifting her into his arms.

Mycroft only had eyes for his niece. So tiny! So perfect! He made quick work, counting fingers and toes and making sure that everything was as it should be. It was too soon to be certain yet, but he was sure he could see the Holmes' cheeks, and the wispy hair that crowned her head looked very much as it did when Sherlock was first born. Time would tell whether Ottilie would be cursed with the wretched Holmes' curls that afflicted both Holmes brothers.

Changed and settled on the bed, Molly held out her arms for the baby, and Mycroft quickly, carefully, passed her back. He knew he was lingering, and surely Sherlock and Molly would like to be alone. With great reluctance, he moved towards the door.

"I'll call mummy and father," he offered, and Molly smiled.

"Send Anthea a snap too, I know she'll want to know."

"I will," he promised.

"Thank you, Mycroft."

Sherlock stood suddenly, and held out his hand to his brother. "Thank you, Mycroft."

"My pleasure, brother-mine." One final glance at baby Ottilie, and he left the room, shutting the door behind him.

~O~

In the quiet bedroom, Sherlock settled carefully beside wife and daughter.

"I can't believe she's finally here," Molly murmured, cradling her directly against her breast, over her heart, just as Deela had told her to.

"Text from midwife came, she'll be by in the morning, if that suits," Sherlock said, glancing at his phone.

"Yes, tell her thank you too, by the way for bringing the delivery kit last week, it was a big help."

"Hm." Sherlock tossed the phone aside once finished with the text and sank down beside Molly. "Morning can hang itself, right now I only want to be here,"

Molly hummed a tired sigh. "Can't seem to stop smiling. I feel as if I'm dreaming!" she laughed. "Am I holding her?"

"Yes you are, love," Sherlock pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I just have an awful feeling I'm going to wake up on the couch, and she'll still be unborn," she confessed. "You're here, you're finally here." Almost wonderingly, she stroked the baby's soft cheek. "I always forget how soft babies are."

"What did you talk to Mycroft about?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"You didn't listen in?" Molly asked, surprised.

"No, you said to send everyone away."

"Hmm."

"I may have heard…something…about an album…" Sherlock answered finally. Molly gave him a look. "And you wanting us to be a family again…"

"Yes," Molly shifted slightly, making herself comfortable. "I want this to be a fresh start, for all of us, not just us, but your parents too, and especially Eurus."

"I expect that was why you included 'Zephyr' in our daughter's name," Sherlock nodded. "I do understand your meaning, truly, and you aren't wrong…perhaps this will be the push we all need."

"I know we won't be a perfect family, in this life, how can we be? But I'd like to make a go of it. I'll need your help, though, yours and Mycroft's."

Sherlock leaned back so that he could look at her properly, and said: "Molly Hooper Holmes, no matter whatever happens in this world, no matter how my parents react to your, surely herculean efforts, I will always give my support." A pause. "Unless you're going to commit some hideous crime, in which case I shall have to promise to arrest you."

"Oh I'd win you over to my side," Molly teased.

"That's what I'm afraid of," he responded and kissed her.

"Well before we retire to a life of crime, what do you say we sleep for the next eight hours?"

"You can't, Ottilie will need to be fed soon, and you really haven't eaten anything properly either, come to think of it-"

Molly placed a finger over his lips, silencing him. "Now would be a good time to hush,"

His gaze softened, and he looked at her with no small degree of wonderment and affection. This beautifully wonderful woman had come so far in his life, conquered so much, including her fears, to be the wife and mother that he loved so fiercely. "I do love you, you know."

Molly smiled tiredly, eyes still shut. "What? Because I told you to shut up?"

"No, because you're absolutely marvelous and I can't believe all of this is mine." He answered simply. He couldn't say what he meant, that she was his lighthouse when things were difficult. She was home in every sense of the word, her and Ottilie, now. "I used to be afraid," he went on after a moment, hand cupping her cheek, drifting down to smooth the baby's soft downy hair. "Afraid of the future, of what I'd become."

She opened her eyes this time, meeting his gaze. "And now?"

"Now I'm…comfortable, I'm happy, truly happy. I'd thought it was a farce for the longest time…love and all that. I thought it must exist for some but I doubted my ability to possess it, that anyone could love me, and vice-versa. When John and Mary got married, I was…quite jealous, because there was proof of love, real love, and it wasn't mine. I look at you now, and I cannot believe that you love me, beyond the infatuation you started with, beyond any crush either of us began with. It blossomed into something quite beautiful, and it's mine- ours," he smiled, correcting himself.

"Because we gave it time," Molly answered him. "Just like everyone else who loves each other, we gave each other time, and didn't ask what the other couldn't give. Didn't expect beyond capabilities, or push our ideals on the other."

He hummed in response, studying the baby again. "I think she'll have your eyes."

"Your hair, I'd wager," Molly answered, finding sleep was swiftly winning her over again, despite the shared tender moment. "Before I fall asleep, I will say that I do love you too, Sherlock."

"Most ardently," he murmured, quoting her favorite book. He kissed her then, before settling her and Ottilie in his arms. How lovely to be loved! There would be trials in the coming months, to be sure, his parents, for one, and Eurus as well. For now, he wouldn't worry. Molly was confident, and that was what mattered. For now, he could sleep, wife and child in his arms, gladly protecting them from whatever future storms they may face. Still, it was a good thought, as he drifted off to sleep, no matter what would come their way, it couldn't break them, love had held them together through all the years prior, it could certainly see them through their future together.


End file.
